"There they are," Ford said, jerkily. "By George! they've got ahead of me."
Instinctively Miriam clutched his arm, while one of the two strangers came forward apologetically.
"You're Mr. John Norrie Ford, ain't you?"
"I am."
"I'm very sorry, sir, but I've got a warrant for your arrest."
"That's all right," Ford said, cheerily. "I was on my way to you, anyhow. You'll find my bag in the cab, and everything ready. We'll drive, if it's all the same to you."
"Yes, sir. Sure thing, sir."
The man dropped back a few paces courteously, while Ford turned to his friends. His air was buoyant. Miriam, too, reflected the radiance of her vision of his triumph. Conquest alone, looking small and white and shrivelled in the rain, showed care and fear.
"I don't think there's anything special to say," Ford remarked, with the awkwardness of a simple nature at an emotional crisis. "I'm not very good at thanks. Miss Strange knows that already. But it's all in here"—he tapped his breast, with a characteristic gesture—"very sacred, very strong."
"We know that," Conquest said, unsteadily, with an embarrassment like Ford's own.