‘He’s booked,’ observed the man.
‘Through,’ said Slyme.
They looked at each other, and up and down the street. The man on the coach-steps took his hat off, and put it on again, and whistled a little.
‘I say! He’s taking his time!’ he remonstrated.
‘I allowed him five minutes,’ said Slyme. ‘Time’s more than up, though. I’ll bring him down.’
He withdrew from the window accordingly, and walked on tiptoe to the door in the partition. He listened. There was not a sound within. He set the candles near it, that they might shine through the glass.
It was not easy, he found, to make up his mind to the opening of the door. But he flung it wide open suddenly, and with a noise; then retreated. After peeping in and listening again, he entered.
He started back as his eyes met those of Jonas, standing in an angle of the wall, and staring at him. His neckerchief was off; his face was ashy pale.
‘You’re too soon,’ said Jonas, with an abject whimper. ‘I’ve not had time. I have not been able to do it. I—five minutes more—two minutes more!—only one!’
Slyme gave him no reply, but thrusting the purse upon him and forcing it back into his pocket, called up his men.