Rolfe also possessed the professional faculty of observation, but in a different degree.  He had seen Mr. Holymead talking to his wife and Miss Fewbanks, but he had noticed nothing but gentlemanly ease in the barrister’s manner.  What did astonish him in connection with Mr. Holymead was that after he had left the ladies and was walking in the direction of the cab-rank he spoke to one of the former occupants of the gallery.  This was a man known to the police and his associates as “Kincher.”  His name was Kemp, and how he had obtained his nick-name was not known.  He was a criminal by profession and had undergone several heavy sentences for burglary.  He was a thick-set man of medium height, about fifty years of age.  Apart from a rather heavy lower jaw, he gave no external indication of his professional pursuits, but looked, with his brown and weather-beaten face and rough blue reefer suit, not unlike a seafaring man.  The likeness was heightened by a tattooed device which covered the back of his right hand, and a slight roll in his gait when he walked.  But appearances are deceptive, for Mr. Kemp, at liberty or in gaol, had never been out of London in his life.  He was born and bred a London thief, and had served all his sentences at Wormwood Scrubbs.  For over a minute he and Mr. Holymead remained in conversation.  Rolfe would have described it officially as familiar conversation, but that description would have overlooked the deference, the sense of inferiority, in “Kincher’s” manner.  For a time Rolfe was puzzled by the incident, but he eventually lighted on an explanation which satisfied himself.  It was that in the earlier days before Mr. Holymead had reached such a prominent position at the bar, he had been engaged in practice in the criminal courts, and “Kincher” had been one of his clients.

With a cheerful smile Holymead brought the conversation to an end and went on his way.  Kemp walked on hurriedly in the opposite direction.  He had his eyes on a young man whom he had seen in the gallery, and who had seemed to avoid his eye.  It was obvious to him that this young man, for whom he had been on the watch when Mr. Holymead spoke to him, had seized the opportunity to slip past him while he was talking to the eminent K.C.  The young man, even from the back view, seemed to be well-dressed.

“Hallo, Fred,” exclaimed Mr. Kemp, as he reached within a yard or two of his quarry.

“Hallo, Kincher,” replied the young man, turning round.  “I didn’t notice you.  Were you up at the court?”

“Yes, I looked in,” said Mr. Kemp.  “There wasn’t much doing, was there?”

“No,” said Fred.

“He won’t trouble us any more,” pursued Mr. Kemp.

“No.”  The young man seemed to have a dread of helping along the conversation, and therefore sought refuge in monosyllables.

Mr. Kemp coughed before he formed his question.

“Did you go up there that night?”

“No.”  The reply came instantaneously, but the young man followed it up with a look of inquiry to ascertain if his denial was believed.