Ordinarily, McCabe was, as Mr. Whitney had remarked, rather an insignificant looking man.  He was below medium stature and somewhat dull in appearance, owing to the fact that he seemed to take little interest in his surroundings, while his face, when his eyes were concealed, as was generally the case, by the heavily drooping lids and long eyelashes, was absolutely expressionless.  When, however, he raised his eyes and fixed them upon any one, the effect was much the same as though a search-light suddenly flashed in one’s face; but this was only upon rare occasions, and few casual observers would dream of the keen perceptive faculties hidden beneath that quiet exterior.

“Tell us your story first, Mac,” said Mr. Barton, after a moment’s silence, thoroughly understanding his man, “ours will keep for a little bit.”

“There’s not much to tell, sir.”

“How are you and the coachman coming on?”

“We’ll not be very intimate after to-night, I’m thinking.”

“How is that?” questioned the attorney, at the same time smiling broadly at his companions.

“Well, sir, there’ll be no call for it, for one thing, as I’ve got all the points in the case I wanted; and for another, his chief returned this evening, and, from the few words I overheard upon his arrival, I don’t think the coachman will feel over-confidential the next time he sees me,” and McCabe smiled grimly to himself.

“So Merrick is back!” interposed Mr. Sutherland, laughing.  “Did you and he meet?”

“Meet, sir?  Ah, no, not much o’ that!  I heard a step coming up the stairs, and as I thought the room was hardly big enough for three, I excused myself to Mr. Jim Matheson — alias Matthews, the coachman — and made for the hall.  We passed each other at the head of the stairs, and I cluttered down, making as much racket as I could; then at the foot of the stairs I took off my boots and crept upstairs again, more to hear the fellow’s voice than anything else, so I could recognize him afterwards.”

“What did you hear?” inquired Mr. Barton, as McCabe paused to light a cigar which Mr. Sutherland had handed him.

“I heard him say, ‘Who was that I passed outside, Jim?’ ’Only a cross-country friend of mine,’ says Jim.  ’What friends are you entertaining here in these quarters?’ says he, kind o’ sharp like.  ‘An’ sure,’ says Jim, ’it was only Dan McCoy, the clerk of the big London lawyer who has come over with the young Mr. Mainwaring I’ve heard you speak of, and a right clever fellow he is, too!’ ‘Clerk!’ he roars out, ’clerk, you blithering idiot! he’s no more clerk than you are coachman, nor half so much, for you’re fit for nothing but to take care of horses all your days!  Do you want to know,’ says he, ‘who you’ve been entertaining?’ That’s no more nor less than Dan McCabe, a Scotland Yard man they’ve brought over, nobody knows what for, but whatever his game, he’s made you play into his hand!  I didn’t stay to hear more,” McCabe concluded, “I got out.”