Crushed, borne along by the swaying crowd, the man who had so effectually aided the distressed Oriental had become separated from his friends. For his foes he cared nothing, and, indeed, these had all they could think of to effect their own retreat, the motive being not so much fear of immediate consequences as the consciousness with many of them that they were desperately wanted by the police in connection with other matters, which would infallibly assert their claims once identity was established. At last, to his relief, he found himself in a side street and outside the crowd.
“You’re better ’ere, sir,” said a gruff voice, whose owner was contemplating him curiously.
“Yes, rather. I’ve been in a bit of a breeze yonder.”
“So I should say, sir,” answered the policeman, significantly. “Thank’ee, sir. Much obliged.”
“They were mobbing a stranger, and I and some others went to help him.”
“Was it a Hindian gent, sir, with a high black sort of ’at? I seen him go by here not long since.”
“Yes. That was the man. Well, I suppose he’s all right by now. Good-night, policeman.”
“Good-night, sir, and thank’ee, sir.”
An hour and a half later one corner of the supper-room in the Peculiar Club was in a state of unwonted liveliness, even for that by no means dull institution, where upwards of a dozen more or less damaged members were consuming devilled bones and champagne.