'Indeed? Is that so? Like the man with the twelve starving children, who steals the bottle of whisky. I know. If I were you I wouldn't trouble to explain. This sort of situation is not improved by explanation. I think you had better pocket your booty and go.'

'As for the ruby'--he was holding it out on the palm of his open hand--'I will give you another for it a dozen times as good as this.'

For the first time she fired up.

'You dare to do anything of the kind--you dare! Do you think I am to be bought and sold?'

'I simply don't wish you to suffer from my action.'

'Do you think that your giving me one piece of stone in exchange for another piece of stone will prevent my suffering? Guy, please, go.'

He placed the ring before her on the table.

'There is the ruby.'

'Take it.'

'Do you mean that?'

'I do. If it is of the slightest use to you, by all means take it.'

'You give it to me--freely?'

'Oh, yes, so freely! Only--I wish you'd go.'

Thrusting the ruby into his waistcoat pocket, he went, without another word. Without it seemed darker even than before. He stumbled, blindly, down the stairs. Presently the darkness lightened; a gleam descended from above. Glancing up he perceived that Miss Bewicke was leaning over the railing with a lighted candle in her hand. He said nothing; attempted no word of thanks. So far as he knew she, too, was still; but as he descended, a.s.sisted by the light she held, he felt as he was convinced the whipped cur must feel, which sneaks off with its tail between its legs. The candle was still showing a faint glimmer of light as he pa.s.sed into the street. He applied a dozen injurious epithets to himself as he thought that he had not even acknowledged the courtesy he had received. But for the life of him he could not, at that moment, have uttered a word of thanks.

Now that he was out in the street he raged. In his first mad impulse he would have taken what Miss Bewicke had called his 'booty' from his pocket and hurled it from him through the night. Prudence, however, prevailed. He told himself, again and again, that he was an ineffable thing to allow it to remain a second longer in his possession. It stayed there all the same. He was conscious that nothing could be less romantic than the whole adventure; nothing more undignified than the part which he had played in it. He had been throughout a mere figurehead--a counter manipulated by three women--he who thought that if he had anything on which to pride himself it was his manhood. His rage waxed hotter as he strode along; he was angry even with Miss Broad.

'If it hadn't been for her--' he began. Then stopped, stood still, struck with his fist at the air--his stick, it seemed, he had left behind him. 'What a cur I am! I try to put the blame, like some snivelling sneak of a schoolboy, upon everyone except myself, as though the fault was not mine, and mine alone. Am I some weak idiot that I am not responsible for my own actions? that I do a dirty thing, and then exclaim that someone made me? Well, it's done, and can't be undone, and I stand, self-confessed, a hound; but, as I live, I'll return at once and make her take the ruby back again. Then off once more for Africa. Better to be haunted by my uncle's ghost than by my own conscience.'

He turned, prepared to put his new-born resolution immediately into effect, and found himself confronted by an individual by whom his steps had been dogged ever since he left Miss Bewicke's. Had he had his wits about him he could hardly have helped noticing the fact, the proceedings of the person who took such a warm interest in his movements had been so singular. To begin with, he had been on the other side of the road. When Mr Holland first appeared he had slunk back into a doorway, from which he presently issued in pursuit, keeping as much as possible in the shadow. When, however, he perceived himself unnoticed he became bolder. Until, at last, making a sudden dash across the street, he began to follow within a few feet of the unconscious pedestrian. He carried something, which every now and then he gripped with both hands, as if about to strike.

The mathematical moment came when Mr Holland turned. Without giving him a chance to speak the man swung the something which he carried through the air, bringing it down heavily, with a thud, upon his head.

Mr Holland dropped on to the pavement. And there he lay.

CHAPTER IX

THE FLYMAN

The a.s.sailant remained, for a second or two, looking down on his rec.u.mbent victim. He retained his grip upon his weapon, as if antic.i.p.ating the possibility of having to strike with it another blow.

But, no, the first had done its work. Mr Holland lay quite still, in an ugly heap, as men only lie who have been stricken hard. His a.s.sailant touched him with his foot, as if to make quite sure. Mr Holland did not resent the intrusion of the other's boot; he evinced no interest in it at all. The man was satisfied.

'That done him.'

It had, for sure. The fellow glanced up and down the street. No one was in sight. That was a state of things which could hardly be expected to continue. Time was precious; at any moment a policeman might appear. Under certain circ.u.mstances a policeman is inquisitive.

The man, dropping on one knee, began to handle Mr Holland as if he had been so much dead meat; indeed, a butcher might have been expected to finger the carcase of what he had just now killed with greater ceremony.

'I wonder where he put it.'

He appeared to be searching for something, which, at first, he could not find. He went quickly through the stricken man's pockets, emptying each in turn of its contents. He made no bones about putting back what he took out, but threw everything into an inner pocket in his own jacket. Watch, money, cigar-case, keys, various odds and ends all went into the same receptacle. Still he did not appear to light on what he sought.

'Suppose he never got it? That would be a pretty little game. My crikey!'

He went through the pockets a second time more methodically; coat, waistcoat, trousers, nothing was omitted. The result was disappointing; they all were empty.

'Has he got it in a secret pocket?' Tearing open the waistcoat, he ran his fingers up and down the lining. 'I can't undress the bloke out here.' He went carefully over the lining, fingered the trousers. 'I don't believe he's got it. If he hasn't, then I'm done. It wasn't worth bashing him for this little lot.' The reference was, possibly, to what he had transferred to his own jacket. 'If he hasn't got it, there'll be trouble. Strikes me I'd better take a little trip into the country. He might think I'd got it and done a bunk. I might get a bit out of him like that. If he's anything to get. I wish I'd never gone in for the job. What's that?'

All the while he had never ceased to finger the silent man, submitting his garments to the minutest possible examination which the position permitted. Constantly he glanced behind and in front, well knowing that the risk of intrusion grew greater with every moment. With what looked very like impertinence, he turned the object of his curiosity over on to his face. As he did so his eye was caught by something which was lying on the pavement, and which apparently had hitherto been covered by the body of the silent man. It was a ring. He s.n.a.t.c.hed at it.

'Got it, by the living jingo! The whole time the fool was right on top of it. If I hadn't overed him I might have gone away and thought he'd never had it after all. That'd been a pretty how-d'ye-do. I suppose he dropped it when I downed him, and covered it when he fell. He might have done it on purpose, just to spite me.' He was standing up, turning the ring over and over between his fingers. 'It's all right, there's no mistake about that much. This is fair jam, this is. A thousand quids into my pocket.' Something attracted his attention.

'Hollo!--sounded like a footstep--a copper's, unless I'm wrong!'

Without pausing to look behind he crossed the street, keeping well within the shadow of the houses, and walking fast, yet not too quickly, in the direction of Victoria. As he went he disposed of what had proved so efficient a weapon. It was a narrow bag, about a couple of inches in diameter, and a little over a foot in length. It was stuffed with sand. Untying one end, he allowed the contents to dribble out into the areas of the houses as he pa.s.sed. Nothing remained but a strip of canvas. He was cramming this into his pocket as he reached the corner of a street into which he turned. A constable was standing on the kerb as if waiting for him to come. His wholly unexpected appearance might have startled a less skilful pract.i.tioner into doing something rash. But this gentleman had had too many curious experiences to permit himself to readily lose his wits.

'Good-night, p'liceman. Fine night!' he sang out, moving quickly on, as if he were hastening on.

'Good-night,' returned the policeman.

He eyed the other as he pa.s.sed, as if he wondered who he was, yet was conscious of no legitimate reason why he should stop him to inquire.

The man drew in the morning air between his teeth, as if he desired to inflate his lungs to the full.

'That was a squeak. It wasn't him I nosed. Who'd have thought that he was there. If he'd come round the corner a minute or two ago there'd have probably been fun. Lucky I emptied the bag before I came on him.

Hollo! He's going into Victoria Street. If he uses his eyes he'll spot my bloke in half a minute from now. I'd better put the steam on.'

He quickened his pace, not breaking into a run, for he was aware that nothing arouses attention more than the sight of a man running at that hour in a London street. But for the next ten minutes he moved at a good five miles an hour, going fair toe-and-heel. Then he slackened, judging that for the present he was safe; and, moreover, he was blown.

By what at least seemed devious ways he steered for Chelsea, to find himself, at last, in the King's Road. Thence he made for the river side, pausing before a house which faced the Thames. The house was an old one. In front was a piece of ground which was half yard, half garden. The approach to this was guarded by an iron railing and a gate. The gate was locked. By it was a rusty bell handle. At this he tugged. Almost immediately a window on the first floor was opened about three inches. A voice was heard.

'Who's there?'

'It's me, the Flyman.'

'You've been a devil of a time.'

'Couldn't be no quicker.'

The window was shut again. Presently the front door was opened instead. A man came out. It was Horace Burton. He sauntered to the gate.

'Have you got it?'

'You let me in and then I'll tell you.'

'Don't be an idiot! Tell me, have you got it?'