"It's his own car and he's an automobile agent," he replied. "He'd been in the next shop. The people there will be able to swear to him—he gave them plenty of trouble on purpose."
"And you," Mr. Bundercombe murmured, "have the necklace?"
"I have!" Rodwell snapped. "What about it? I've got to divide with the girl here. How much do you want?"
"Only the necklace!" Mr. Bundercombe replied.
Mr. Rodwell's geographical description of where he would see Mr. Bundercombe first is too lurid for print. Mr. Bundercombe, however, only shook his head, with a gentle smile upon his lips.
"If you're not a cop and you won't stand in, what in the name of glory are you?" Rodweil spluttered at last.
"I am afraid I must describe myself as a meddler," Mr. Bundercombe confessed; "an intervener. I stand midway between the law and the criminal. I sympathize wholly with neither. I admire the skill and courage you have shown to-day, but I also sympathize with the head of that establishment whom you have relieved of possibly many thousand pounds' worth of diamonds. I could not—"
Rodwell made his effort, but Mr. Bundercombe was more than ready. Intervention on my part was quite unnecessary. Mr. Bundercombe's left arm shot out like a piston-rod and the unfortunate victim of his blow remained on the carpet, with his hand to his cheek.
"Quite in order, of course," Mr. Bundercombe remarked, "but absolutely useless. Boxing was my only sport when I was a young man, to say nothing of my remarkably athletic young companion. It won't do, Rodwell! You'd better hand over the jewels. Give them to Miss Blanche and she'll hand them to me. They're in a morocco case, I think, in your trousers pocket."
Rodwell produced them sullenly.