He had so far completed his dressing that he was in his waistcoat, and was just looking round for his coat.
“Stop!” said the Professor. “Hold Mr. Johnson’s coat for a moment!”
This was to young Wright, who laid his hands on the garment in question.
“You must be tired, sir,” said the Professor, in a very soft voice. “May I offer you a leedle cigarette?”
He drew from his pocket a silver cigarette-case, and, in a thoroughly English accent, he went on:
“I have waited long to give you back your cigarette-case, which you left at your club, Mr. Thomas Cranley!”
The sailor’s eye fell on it. He dashed the silver box violently to the ground, and trampled on it, then he made one rush at his coat.
“Hold it, hold it!” cried Barton, laying aside his Teutonic accent—“hold it: there’s a revolver in the pocket!”
But there was no need to struggle for the coat.
The sailor had suddenly staggered and fallen, a crumpled but not unconscious mass, on the floor.