Ingrate! serpent! it will only tighten the rope round your own ungrateful neck!”
He turned on his heel, and wrote something on a card. He rang a bell, met the waiter at the door and handed him what he had written.
“That may be so,” said Tom to Nicholas Harding. “I may swing yet—but, thank God! not for Blaydes!”
“It is really the receipt?”
“Undoubtedly: written by Blaydes and signed by me: it will clear me of that crime, if it doesn’t convict him. I don’t want to convict him.”
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“It would be useless. There’s madness in his blood, as well as crime! But is that your only evidence?”
“No, I have a witness outside who all but saw him do it. He did see him taking the papers from the dead man’s pocket.”
“Papers!” cried Mr. Harding. His high colour fled and came again. “They belonged to me: give them to me, Erichsen, for God’s sake!”
“Then keep your eye on him, and you shall have all but the one I may want. I saw they were letters to you.” And in an instant they were in Nicholas Harding’s pocket, all but the one with the receipt upon the back; and he also buttoned up his coat.
Meanwhile, Daintree was at the other end of the long room, guarding the door; and now they saw him fling it open with an evil smile. Next moment a strange gang entered: two constables, Ginger, Nat Sullivan—and Peggy O’Brien.
Peggy’s presence is only too easily explained: when her own ears heard Tom consent to leave the country,
