“Look here, governor,” the owner of the wrist pleaded, “it hurts dreadful. I shall faint.”
“Faint, then. I know it hurts.”
The man’s face was white with pain, but Mr. Penfound had seen too many strange sights in his life to be greatly moved by the sight of a rascal with a bullet in his anatomy.
“To proceed. You will stand side by side and turn round. The young gentleman will open the window, and you will pass out into the garden. March! Slower, slower, I say. Halt!”
The burglars were now outside, while Mr. Penfound was still within the room. He followed them, and in doing so stumbled over a black bag which lay on the floor. Fortunately he recovered himself instantly. He noticed lying on the top of the bag a small bunch of skeleton keys, some putty, and what looked like a thong of raw hide. He also observed that three small panes of the French window had been forced inwards.
“Turn to your left, go down the pathway, and halt when you come to the side gate. And don’t hurry, mind you.”
They obeyed, without speaking even to each other. Mr. Penfound had no fear of their disobedience. He was within two yards of their heels, and he said to himself that his hands were superbly steady.
It was at this point that Mr. Penfound began to feel hungry, really hungry. The whisky had appeased the cravings of his stomach for a short time, but now its demands were imperious. Owing to the exigencies of the day’s journey he had not had a satisfying meal for thirty hours; and Mr. Penfound since settling down had developed a liking for regular meals. However, there was nothing to be done at present.
He therefore proceeded with and safely accomplished his plan of driving the burglars before him into the street.
“Here,” he thought, “we shall soon be seeing a policeman, or some late bird who will fetch a policeman.” And he drove his curious team up Munster Park Gardens towards Fulham Road, that interminable highway, once rural but rural no longer.