Clapping his hand to the wound the landlord went white and leaned back against the bar.
"Now, by heaven!" he cried, "I have got to leave town. Come, Seth, come, Joe."
"But your chests! Your money!" my uncle repeated in a dazed way. The events of the night were quite too much for his wits.
"Let him keep them for the bill," said Gleazen with a harsh laugh. "Come, I say!"
"But—but—"
"Come! Hear that?"
"Watch the back door," someone was crying. "He's probably dead drunk, but he's a dangerous man and we can't take chances."
It was the constable's voice.
Gleazen was already running through the long hall, and we followed him at our best speed.