The Wrecker, page 149 by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne
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that I can give you his address."
"Very well," said Jim, and put his hat on. "Rather a strong step, isn't it?" (Between every sentence was a clear pause.) "Not think better of it? Well, come--call it a dollar?"
"Mr. Pinkerton, sir!" exclaimed the offended attorney; and, indeed, I myself was almost afraid that Jim had mistaken his man and gone too far.
"No present use for a dollar?" says Jim. "Well, look here, Mr. Bellairs: we're both busy men, and I'll go to my outside figure with you right away--"
"Stop this, Pinkerton," I broke in. "I know the address: 924 Mission Street."
I do not know whether Pinkerton or Bellairs was the more taken aback.
"Why in snakes didn't you say so, Loudon?" cried my friend.
"You didn't ask for it before," said I, colouring to my temples under his troubled eyes.
It was Bellairs who broke silence, kindly supplying me with all that I had yet to learn. "Since you know Mr. Dickson's address," said he, plainly burning to be rid of us, "I suppose I need detain you no longer."
I do not know how Pinkerton felt, but I had death in my soul as we came down the outside stair, from the den of this blotched spider. My whole being was strung, waiting for Jim's first question, and prepared to blurt out, I believe, almost with tears, a full avowal. But my friend asked nothing.
"We must hack it," said he, tearing off in the direction of the nearest stand. "No time to be lost. You saw how I changed ground. No use in paying the shyster's commission."
Again I expected a reference to my suppression; again I was disappointed. It was plain Jim feared the subject, and I felt I almost hated him for that fear. At last, when we were already in the hack and driving towards Mission Street, I could bear my suspense no longer.
"You do not ask me about that address," said I.
"No," said he, quickly and timidly. "What was it? I would like to know."
The note of timidity offended me like a buffet; my temper rose as hot as mus