rattling through Shaftesbury Avenue before Poiccart gave an explanation.
"I have been robbed," he said, sinking his voice, "my watch has gone, but that does not matter; the pocketbook with the notes I made for the guidance of Thery has gone --and that matters a great deal."
"It may have been a common thief," said Manfred: "he took the watch."
Poiccart was feeling his pockets rapidly.
"Nothing else has gone," he said; "it may have been as you say, a pickpocket, who will be content with the watch and will drop the notebook down the nearest drain; but it may be a police agent."
"Was there anything in it to identify you?" asked Manfred, in a troubled tone.
"Nothing," was the prompt reply; "but unless the police are blind they would understand the calculations and the plans. It may not come to their hands at all, but if it does and the thief can recognise us we are in a fix."
The cab drew up at the down station at Baker Street, and the two men alighted.
"I shall go east," said Poiccart, "we will meet in the morning. By that time I shall have learnt whether the book has reached Scotland Yard. Goodnight."
And with no other farewell than this the two men parted.
If Billy Marks had not had a drop of drink he would have been perfectly satisfied with his night's work. Filled, however, with that false liquid confidence that leads so many good men astray, Billy thought it would be a sin to neglect the opportunities that the gods had shown him. The excitement engendered by the threats of the Four Just Men had brought all suburban London to Westminster, and on the Surrey side of the bridge Billy found hundreds of patient suburbanites waiting for conveyance to Streatham, Camberwell, Clapham, and Greenwich.
So, the night being comparatively young, Billy decided to work the trams.
He touched a purse from a stout old lady in black, a Waterbury watch from a gentleman in a top hat, a small hand mirror from a dainty bag, and decided to conclude his operations with the exploration of a superior young lady's pocket.
Billy's search was successful. A purse and a lace handkerchief rewarded him, and he made arrangements for a modest retirement. Then it was that a gentle voice breathed into his ear. "Hullo, Billy!"
He knew the voice, and felt momentarily unwell.
"Hullo, Mister Howard," he exclaimed with feigned joy; " 'ow are you, sir? Fancy meetin' you!"
"Where are you going, Billy?" asked the welcome Mr. Howard, taking Billy's arm affectionately.
" 'Ome," said the virtuous Billy.
"Home it is," said Mr. Howard, leading the unwilling Billy from the crowd; "home, sweet home, it is, Billy." He called another young man, with whom he seemed to be acquainted: "Go on that car, Porter, and see who has lost anything. If you can find anyone bring them along"; and the other young man obeyed.
"And now," said Mr. Howard, still holding Billy's arm affectionately, "tell me how the world has been using you."
"Look 'ere, Mr. Howard," said Billy earnestly, "what's the game? where are you takin' me?"
"The game is the old game," said Mr. Howard sadly --"the same old game, Bill, and I'm taking you to the same old sweet spot."
"You've made a mistake this time, guv'nor," cried Bill fiercely, and there was a slight clink.
"Permit me, Billy," said Mr Howard, stooping quickly and picking up the purse Billy had dropped.
At the police station the sergeant behind the charge desk pretended to be greatly overjoyed at Billy's arrival, and the gaoler, who put Billy into a steel-barred dock, and passed his hands through cunning pockets, greeted him as a friend.
"Gold watch, half a chain, gold, three purses, two handkerchiefs, and a red moroccer pocketbook," reported the gaoler.
The sergeant nodded approvingly.
"Quite a good day's work, William," he said.
"What shall I get this time?" inquired the prisoner, and Mr Howard, a plain-clothes officer engaged in filling in particulars of the charge, opined nine moons.
"Go on!" exclaimed Mr Billy Marks in
"I have been robbed," he said, sinking his voice, "my watch has gone, but that does not matter; the pocketbook with the notes I made for the guidance of Thery has gone --and that matters a great deal."
"It may have been a common thief," said Manfred: "he took the watch."
Poiccart was feeling his pockets rapidly.
"Nothing else has gone," he said; "it may have been as you say, a pickpocket, who will be content with the watch and will drop the notebook down the nearest drain; but it may be a police agent."
"Was there anything in it to identify you?" asked Manfred, in a troubled tone.
"Nothing," was the prompt reply; "but unless the police are blind they would understand the calculations and the plans. It may not come to their hands at all, but if it does and the thief can recognise us we are in a fix."
The cab drew up at the down station at Baker Street, and the two men alighted.
"I shall go east," said Poiccart, "we will meet in the morning. By that time I shall have learnt whether the book has reached Scotland Yard. Goodnight."
And with no other farewell than this the two men parted.
If Billy Marks had not had a drop of drink he would have been perfectly satisfied with his night's work. Filled, however, with that false liquid confidence that leads so many good men astray, Billy thought it would be a sin to neglect the opportunities that the gods had shown him. The excitement engendered by the threats of the Four Just Men had brought all suburban London to Westminster, and on the Surrey side of the bridge Billy found hundreds of patient suburbanites waiting for conveyance to Streatham, Camberwell, Clapham, and Greenwich.
So, the night being comparatively young, Billy decided to work the trams.
He touched a purse from a stout old lady in black, a Waterbury watch from a gentleman in a top hat, a small hand mirror from a dainty bag, and decided to conclude his operations with the exploration of a superior young lady's pocket.
Billy's search was successful. A purse and a lace handkerchief rewarded him, and he made arrangements for a modest retirement. Then it was that a gentle voice breathed into his ear. "Hullo, Billy!"
He knew the voice, and felt momentarily unwell.
"Hullo, Mister Howard," he exclaimed with feigned joy; " 'ow are you, sir? Fancy meetin' you!"
"Where are you going, Billy?" asked the welcome Mr. Howard, taking Billy's arm affectionately.
" 'Ome," said the virtuous Billy.
"Home it is," said Mr. Howard, leading the unwilling Billy from the crowd; "home, sweet home, it is, Billy." He called another young man, with whom he seemed to be acquainted: "Go on that car, Porter, and see who has lost anything. If you can find anyone bring them along"; and the other young man obeyed.
"And now," said Mr. Howard, still holding Billy's arm affectionately, "tell me how the world has been using you."
"Look 'ere, Mr. Howard," said Billy earnestly, "what's the game? where are you takin' me?"
"The game is the old game," said Mr. Howard sadly --"the same old game, Bill, and I'm taking you to the same old sweet spot."
"You've made a mistake this time, guv'nor," cried Bill fiercely, and there was a slight clink.
"Permit me, Billy," said Mr Howard, stooping quickly and picking up the purse Billy had dropped.
At the police station the sergeant behind the charge desk pretended to be greatly overjoyed at Billy's arrival, and the gaoler, who put Billy into a steel-barred dock, and passed his hands through cunning pockets, greeted him as a friend.
"Gold watch, half a chain, gold, three purses, two handkerchiefs, and a red moroccer pocketbook," reported the gaoler.
The sergeant nodded approvingly.
"Quite a good day's work, William," he said.
"What shall I get this time?" inquired the prisoner, and Mr Howard, a plain-clothes officer engaged in filling in particulars of the charge, opined nine moons.
"Go on!" exclaimed Mr Billy Marks in
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