approaching him, he quickened his pace to a run. As he came within a few yards of the man, who appeared to be of the labourer class, he slackened his pace, then stopped abruptly.
"Where's the police-station, mate?" he enquired, panting as if with great exertion.
"The police-station?" repeated the man curiously. "Straight up the road, then third or fourth to the right, then"
"Is it miles?" panted Bindle.
"'Bout quarter of a mile, not more. What's up, mate?" the man enquired. "Been 'urt?"
"Quarter of a mile, and 'im bleedin' to death! I got to fetch a doctor," Bindle continued. Then, as if with sudden inspiration, he thrust Professor Conti's letter into the astonished man's hands.
"In the name of the law I order yer to take this letter to the police-station. I'll go for a doctor. Quick—it's burglary and murder! 'Ere's a bob for yer trouble."
With that, Bindle sped back the way he had come, praying that no policeman might see him and give chase.
The workman stood looking stupidly from the letter and the shilling in his hand to the retreating form of Bindle. After a moment's hesitation he pocketed the coin, and with a grumble in his throat and the fear of the Law in his heart, he turned and slowly made his way to the police-station.
