“Then I won’t take your advice,” said Wilson, softly.
“But all these policemen know you’re a big prize. If they find you and you break for it, they’ll shoot––and shoot to kill if necessary.”
The thief flung round on him and his face was suddenly drawn and serious.
“Death, my dear Gladwin, is the very least of my troubles, if it will only come like that.”
“By Jove! I like you––and I hope you escape!”
“I know you do,” said Wilson, shaking his head, “but not altogether on my account. You’re thinking of her––the girl. You don’t want it to be known that she was going to marry me.”
“To be frank, yes. They’re coming now. Quick! Do something!”
The thief seized from the floor one of the portières he had torn down to wrap the canvases in, wound it about him and darted behind the curtains that screened the window. As he vanished Gladwin went to the door and heard the voice of his friend, Whitney Barnes, demanding admission.