"I've the main route fairly correct, I think, and a rough
idea of where those sacks stood, and where we took to cover when Black
Whiskers was showing the master of this underworld domain through it.
Happen to have learnt the chap's name yet?"
Dollops nodded.
"Yessir. Brent it is, Jonathan Brent, or so one of the men tells me. Says
he's never seed 'im, though; nobody 'ardly ever does, from all accounts
'e give me. Ole Black Whiskers and our silent-footed friend Borkins is
the main ones wot does 'is work for 'im."
"H'm. Well, that's something gleaned, anyway. Of course we may be able to
find out who he really is, but the chances are small. Men like this chap
don't go giving away anything more than they can help. They lie low and
let their paid underlings stand the racket if it happens to come along.
I know the type. I've come cross it before. Well, here we are. Now for
it--but this time I happen to have brought along a revolver."
He crept through the hedge and crouching behind it ran to the spot where
they had found the open trap-door upon that memorable occasion three
nights before.
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