“I’m earning an honest living,” said the boy doggedly.  So much of his youth had been spent among the criminal classes that he still retained the feeling that there was an indelible stigma attached to those individuals described as narks.

“How can any one earn a respectable honest living by being a nark?” asked Mr. Kemp contemptuously.  “And more than that, it’s one of the best men that ever breathed that you are a-spying on.  I’ll have you know that he’s a friend of mine.  That is to say he’s done things for me that I ain’t likely to forget.  There’s nothing I won’t do for him, if the chance comes my way.  I’ll see that no harm happens to him through you and your Mr. Crewe.  You’ve got to stop this here spying.  Stop it at once, do you understand?  For if you don’t, by God, I’ll deal with you so that you’ll do no more spying in this world!  And I’d have you and your master know that I’m a man what means what he says.”  Mr. Kemp shook his fist angrily at Joe as he moved away to the door of the loft after having delivered his menacing warning.  “My last words to you is, Stop it!” he said, as he turned to go down the stairs.

Half an hour later Mr. Kemp entered the lounge of Verney’s Hotel as though in quest of some one.  Most of the hotel guests had finished their after-dinner coffee and liqueurs, and the hall was comparatively empty, but a few who remained raised their eyes in well-bred protest at the intrusion of a member of the lower orders into the corridor of an exclusive hotel.  Mr. Kemp felt somewhat out of place, and he stared about the luxuriously furnished lounge with a look in which awe mingled with admiration.  Before he could advance further, a liveried porter of massive proportions came up to him and barred the way.

“Now, now, my man,” said the porter haughtily, “what do you think you are doing here?  This ain’t your place, you know.  You’ve made a mistake.  Out you go.”

“I want to see Mr. Holymead,” said Mr. Kemp in a gruff voice.

Verney’s was such a high-class hotel that seedy-looking persons seldom dared to put a foot within the palatial entrance.  The porter, unused to dealing with the obtrusive impecunious type to which he believed Mr. Kemp to belong, made the mistake of trying to argue with him.

“Want to see Mr. Holymead?” he repeated.  “How do you know he’s here?  Who told you?  What do you want to see him for?”

“What’s that got to do with you?” retorted Mr. Kemp.  “You don’t think Mr. Holymead would like me to discuss his business with the likes of you?  That ain’t what you’re here for.  You go and tell Mr. Holymead that some one wants to see him.  Tell him Mr. Kemp wants to see him.”  Mr. Kemp drew himself up and buttoned the coat of his faded serge suit.