it was the killing of young Perkins outside the Holborn Bar——— What! you’re not going?”
The negro had sprung back, and his face was leaden. “I won’t listen to no such talk,” said he. “What have I to do with this ’ere Perkins, Masser Holmes? I was trainin’ at the Bull Ring in Birmingham when this boy done gone get into trouble.”
“Yes, you’ll tell the magistrate about it, Steve,” said Holmes. “I’ve been watching you and Barney Stockdale———”
“So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes———”
“That’s enough. Get out of it. I’ll pick you up when I want you.”
“Good mornin’, Masser Holmes. I hope there ain’t no hard feelin’s about this ere visit?”
“There will be unless you tell me who sent you.”
“Why, there ain’t no secret about that, Masser Holmes. It was that same genelman that you have just done gone mention.”
“And who set him on to it?”
“S’elp me. I don’t know, Masser Holmes. He just say, ‘Steve, you go see Mr. Holmes, and tell him his life ain’t safe if he go down Harrow way.’ That’s the whole truth.”
Without waiting for any further questioning, our visitor bolted out of the room almost as precipitately as he had entered. Holmes knocked out the ashes of his pipe with a quiet chuckle.
“I am glad you were not forced to break his woolly head, Watson. I observed your maneuvres with the poker. But he is really rather a harmless fellow, a great muscular, foolish, blustering baby, and easily
