“So are you,” said the elder burglar; and he and Mr. Penfound both glanced somewhat scornfully at the other burglar, undersized, cringing, pale.
“Ever been caught before?” asked Mr. Penfound pleasantly.
“What’s that got to do with you?”
The retort was gruff, final—a snub, and Mr. Penfound felt it as such. He had the curious sensation that he was in the presence of a superior spirit, a stronger personality than his own.
“Here’s a policeman,” remarked the stallkeeper casually, and they all listened, and heard the noise of regular footfalls away round a distant corner.
Mr. Penfound struggled inwardly with a sudden overmastering impulse, and then yielded.
“You can go,” he said quietly to the elder burglar, “so clear off before the policeman sees you.”
“Straight?” the man said, looking him in the eyes to make sure there was no joking.
“Straight, my friend.... Here, shake.”
So it happened that Mr. Penfound and the elder burglar shook hands. The next instant Mr. Penfound was alone with the stallkeeper; the other two, with the celerity born of practice, had vanished into the night.