“No! I didn't. Why, you precious greenhorn, was that our game?”
“Well, sir,” cried Robinson cheerfully, “any way it was a good night's work. The only thing vexes me,” added he, with an intense air of mortification, “is that the worst scoundrel of the lot got clear off; that is a pity—a downright pity.”
“Make your mind easy,” replied Mr. Miles calmly, “he won't escape; we shall have him before the day is out.”
“Will you, sir? that is right—but how?”
“The honorable thingumbob, Tom Yates's friend, put us up to it. We sent the pair down to Sydney in the break and we put Yates's groom (he is a ticket-of-leave) in with them, and a bottle of brandy, and he is to condole with them and have a guinea if they let out the third man's name, and they will—for they are bitter against him.”
Robinson sighed. “What is the matter?” said his master, trying to twist his head round.
“Nothing! only I am afraid they—they won't split; fellows of that sort don't split on a comrade where they can get no good by it.”
“Well, if they don't, still we shall have him. One of us saw his face.”
“Ah!”
“It was the honorable—the knave of trumps. While Yates was getting the arms, Trumps slipped out by the garden gate and caught a glimpse of our friend; he saw him take the lantern up and fling it down and run. The light fell full on his face and he could swear to it out of a thousand. So the net is round our friend and we shall have him before the day is out.”