“Sir Timothy?” a rather hoarse, strained voice asked.
“I am speaking,” Sir Timothy replied. “Who is it?”
The man at the other end spoke as though he were out of breath. Nevertheless, what he said was distinct enough.
“I am John Walter.”
“Well?”
“I am just ringing you up,” the voice went on, “to give you what's called a sporting chance. There's a boat from Southampton midday tomorrow. If you're wise, you'll catch it. Or better still, get off on your own yacht. They carry a wireless now, these big steamers. Don't give a criminal much of a chance, does it?”
“I am to understand, then,” Sir Timothy said calmly, “that you have laid your information?”
“I've parted with it and serve you right,” was the bitter reply. “I'm not saying that you're not a brave man, Sir Timothy, but there's such a thing as being foolhardy, and that's what you are. I wasn't asking you for half your fortune, nor even a dab of it, but if your life wasn't worth a few hundred pounds—you, with all that money—well, it wasn't worth saving. So now you know. I've spent ninepence to give you a chance to hop it, because I met a gent who has been good to me. I've had a good dinner and I feel merciful. So there you are.”
“Do I gather,” Sir Timothy asked, in a perfectly level tone, “that the deed is already done?”
“It's already done and done thoroughly,” was the uncompromising answer. “I'm not ringing up to ask you to change your mind. If you were to offer me five thousand now, or ten, I couldn't stop the bally thing. You've a sporting chance of getting away if you start at once. That's all there is to it.”