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If O'Grady recalls the Oisin who contended with Patrick and longed to be slaying with the Fianna, even though they were in hell, Leamy, anima naturaliter Christiana, reminds one rather of the Irish monk in a distant land moved to write lyrics in his missal by the song of the bird that makes him think of Erin, or Marban, the hermit, rejoicing to his brother, the king, in his "sheiling in the wood," his
His transaction with Leamy was his only possible expedient to save himself from being hopelessly taken with the swag in his possession. The paragraph told me why Leamy had waited in vain for "Mr. W." in the cab. "What shall you do now?" I asked. "I shall go to the Gold Street house and find out what I can as soon as this cab turns up."
"Neither happened to look like Mr. Hollams, for instance?" Leamy started. "Begob, but they did! They'd ha' been mortal like him if they'd been shaved." Then, after a pause, he suddenly added: "Holy saints! is ut the fam'ly he talked av?" Hewitt laughed. "Perhaps it is," he said. "Now, as to the man who sent you with the bag. Was it an old bag?" "Bran' cracklin' new a brown leather bag." "Locked?"
Why, I had the Leamy Ladies looking like children romping on the nursery floor. "There was nothing to it. I had a hunch to grab the bundle and beat it for home and crawl under the bed. And then I had another hunch that told me to stick for the big show. I plant one century in my war bag and get seven to two on the next with the other three. I win. "Then I do want to go home. I felt ill.
'Mick Leamy, sor, sez I, 'from Misther W. wid the sparks. 'Oh, sez he, 'thin come in. I wint in. 'They're in here, are they? sez he, takin' the bag. 'They are, sor, sez I, 'an' Misther W. sez I'm to have me reg'lars. 'You shall, sez he. 'What shall we say, now afinnip? 'Fwhat's that, sor? sez I. 'Oh, sez he, 'I s'pose ye're a new hand; five quid ondershtand that?"
We turned the next corner and saw the man thirty yards before us, walking, and pulling up his sleeve at the shoulder, so as to conceal the rent. "That's Sim Wilks," Hewitt explained, as we followed, "the 'juce of a foine jintleman' who got Leamy to carry his bag, and the man who knows where the Quinton ruby is, unless I am more than usually mistaken. Don't stare after him, in case he looks round.
The ruby? Shall you take the case up, then?" "I shall. It is no longer a speculation." "Then do you expect to find it at Hollams' house in Chelsea?" I asked. "No, I don't, because it isn't there else why are they trying to get it from this unlucky Irishman? There has been bad faith in Hollams' gang, I expect, and Hollams has missed the ruby and suspects Leamy of having taken it from the bag."
The cab will be a four-wheeler, and there will be plenty of room." Gold Street was a short street of private houses of very fair size and of a half-vanished pretension to gentility. We drove slowly through, and Leamy had no difficulty in pointing out the house wherein he had been paid five pounds for carrying a bag.
"Now tell me what happened on Thursday the poisoning, or drugging, you know?" "Well, sor, I was walking out, an' toward the evenin' I lost mesilf. Up comes a man, seemin'ly a sthranger, and shmacks me on the showldher. 'Why, Mick! sez he; 'it's Mick Leamy, I du b'lieve! "'I am that, sez I, 'but you I do not know. "'Not know me? sez he.
At the end the cab turned the corner and stopped, while Hewitt wrote a short note to an official of Scotland Yard. "Take this note," he instructed Leamy, "to Scotland Yard in the cab, and then go home. I will pay the cabman now." "I will, sor. An' will I be protected?" "Oh, yes! Stay at home for the rest of the day, and I expect you'll be left alone in future.
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