“Well?”
“I asked the same question of the maitre d’hotel,” he said slowly, like a man loath to share a joke; “he compared the agitation to the atrocious East-End murders.”
Manfred stopped dead and looked with horror on his companion.
“Great heavens!” he exclaimed in distress, “it never occurred to me that we should be compared with — him!”
They resumed their walk.
“It is part of the eternal bathos,” said Poiccart serenely; “even De Quincey taught the English nothing. The God of Justice has but one interpreter here, and he lives in a public-house in Lancashire, and is an expert and dexterous disciple of the lamented Marwood, whose system he has improved upon.”
They were traversing that portion of Whitehall from which Scotland Yard runs.
A man, slouching along with bent head and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his tattered coat, gave them a swift sidelong glance, stopped when they had passed, and looked after them. Then he turned and quickened his shuffle on their trail. A press of people and a seeming ceaseless string of traffic at the corner of Cockspur Street brought Manfred and Poiccart to a standstill, waiting for an opportunity to cross the road. They were subjected to a little jostling as the knot of waiting people thickened, but eventually they crossed and walked towards St Martin’s Lane.
The comparison which Poiccart had quoted still rankled with Manfred.
“There will be people at His Majesty’s tonight,” he said, “applauding Brutus as he asks, ‘What villain touched his body and not for justice?’ You will not find a serious student of history, or any commonplace man of intelligence, for the matter of that, who, if you asked, Would it not have been God’s blessing for the world if Bonaparte had been assassinated on his return from Egypt? would not answer without hesitation, Yes. But we — we are murderers!”
“They would not have erected a statue of Napoleon’s assassin,” said Poiccart easily, “any more than they have enshrined Felton, who slew a profligate and debauched Minister of Charles I. Posterity may do us justice,” he spoke half mockingly; “for myself I am satisfied with the approval of my conscience.”
He threw away the cigar he was smoking, and put his hand to the inside pocket of his coat to find another. He withdrew his hand without the cigar and whistled a passing cab.
Manfred looked at him in surprise.
“What is the matter? I thought you said you would walk?”
Nevertheless he entered the hansom and Poiccart followed, giving his direction through the trap, “Baker Street Station.”
The cab was 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 plainclothes officer engaged in filling in particulars of the charge, opined nine moons.
“Go on!” exclaimed Mr Billy Marks in consternation.
“Fact,” said the sergeant; “you’re a rogue and a vagabond, Billy, you’re a petty larcenist, and you’re for the sessions this time — Number Eight.”
This latter was addressed to the gaoler, who bore Billy off to the cells protesting vigorously against a police force that could only tumble to poor blokes, and couldn’t get a touch on sanguinary murderers like the Four Just Men.
“What do we pay rates and taxes for?” indignantly demanded Billy through the grating of his cell.
“Fat lot you’ll ever pay,