"Deedes," said I, "you're a cold-blooded, calculating villain; but I confess I can't help admiring you."
"And trusting me about to-night?" he added, with some little anxiety.
"I wouldn't trust you a bit," I replied, "if it weren't to your own interest to do everything you've said you'll do. Luckily it is. There's a hue and cry for you in this town. Every hole and corner will be watched but the bank. You can't hope to get away; and by far your wisest plan is the one you've hit upon, to return the money and throw yourself on your manager's mercy."
"It is," he answered, with his foot upon the cellar stairs; "and you bet old I'Anson won't make it harder than necessary for me. It's a clever idea. I should never have thought of it but for you. Old man, I'm grateful; it's more than I deserve!"
And I left him with my hand aching from a grip as warm as that of any honest man; and what was stranger yet, the incredible impression of a catch in my villain's voice. Here, however, I felt I must be mistaken, but my thoughts were speedily distracted from the anomaly. I had a milkman to dodge as I made my escape from the garden of the empty house. And half-way down the road I met none other than the poor discomfited sergeant of the night.
"Been having another look at the house," said I, with the frankness that disarms suspicion.
"See anything fresh?"
"Nothing."
"You wouldn't. I don't believe the beggar was in the house two minutes. Still I thought I'd like to have a squint myself by daylight; and there'll be little damages to repair where we come in. So long, mister; you done your best; it wasn't your fault."
He was gone. I looked after him with my heart in my mouth. I watched him to the gate. Would he come forth alone—or alive? I saw the last of the sergeant—and fled.