Alfred Davager. He had greasy white hair and a
mottled face. He was low in the forehead, fat in the stomach,
hoarse in the voice, and weak in the legs. Both his eyes were
bloodshot, and one was fixed in his head. He smelled of spirits,
and carried a toothpick in his mouth. "How are you? I've just
done dinner," says he; and he lights a cigar, sits down with his
legs crossed, and winks at me.
I tried at first to take the measure of him in a wheedling,
confidential way; but it was no good. I asked him, in a
facetious, smiling manner, how he had got hold of the letter. He
only told me in answer that he had been in the confidential
employment of the writer of it, and that he had always been
famous since infancy for a sharp eye to his own interests. I paid
him some compliments; but he was not to be flattered. I tried to
make him lose his temper; but he kept it in spite of me. It ended
in his driving me to my last resource--I made an attempt to
frighten him.
"Before we say a word about the money," I began, "let me put a
case, Mr. Davager. The pull you have on Mr. Francis Gatliffe is,
that you can hinder his marriage on Wednesday. Now, suppose I
have got a magistrate's warrant to apprehend you in my pocket?
Suppose I have a constable to execute it in the next room?
Suppose I bring you up to-morrow--the day before the
marriage--charge you only generally with an attempt to extort
money, and apply for a day's remand to complete the case?
Suppose, as a suspicious stranger, you can't get bail in this
town? Suppose--"
"Stop a bit," says Mr.
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