“Well, you shall see it tomorrow. I don’t carry thirty-five pounds about in my evening clothes.”
“Then suppose we turn back to your rooms, and you pay me there and now!”
“And where are my rooms, pray?”—
“In the village of West End.”
Blaydes swore a puzzled oath, and thumped his cane upon the ground. “You know a lot!” he snarled. “What you don’t know is when to leave well alone. I have told you I am sorry about that mistake. I have told you I can let you have the money tomorrow; yet you have the insolence to doubt my word! Very well—have your way; I shall waste no more time upon you. I am going. You know where to find me when you come to your senses!”
“Better still, I know where you’re going, and I’m coming too. I don’t lose sight of you to-night!”
“We shall see about that.”
“We shall!”
And they stepped out with no more words, though Blaydes ground his teeth and gripped his cane and tried his best to drop a foot or two behind. But Tom’s eye was on him. So he stopped at a stile; whereupon Tom stopped too; and, as they stood, there passed a labourer who stared and wished them good-night.
“See here, Erichsen!” exclaimed the Captain. “I object to discussing private matters on a turnpike road. Here’s a path that’s a short cut back into town; suppose I come a part of the way with you, and talk this thing over without fear of being heard? What do you say?”
“As you like; your way is mine.”
Blaydes shrugged his broad shoulders, tucked his cane under one arm, and laboriously crossed the stile. Tom
