“And old George?”
“We’ll settle him to-night,” said the other with a frown. “Bat is bringing him over, and I want to know how he came to let Angel get at us.”
Old George had always been a problem to the “Borough Lot.” He held the position of trust that many contended no demented old man should hold. Was it safe or sane to trust him with the plate that had been so laboriously acquired from Roebury House, and the jewels of Lady Ivy Task-Hender, for the purloining of which one “Hog” Stander was at that very moment doing seven stretch? Was it wise to install him as custodian of the empty house at Blackwall, through which Angel Esquire gained admittance to the meeting-place of the “Borough Lot”?
Some there were who said “Yes,” and these included the powerful faction that numbered “Bat” Sands, “Curt” Goyle, and Connor amongst them. They contended that suspicion would never rest on this half-witted old gentleman, with his stuffed birds, his goldfish, caged rabbits and mice, a view that was supported by the fact that Lady Ivy’s priceless diamonds lay concealed for months in the false bottom of a hutch devoted to guinea pigs in old George’s strange menagerie, what time the police were turning London inside out in their quest for the property.
But now old George was under a cloud. Notwithstanding the fact that he had been found amongst his live stock securely bound to a chair, with a handkerchief over his mouth, suspicion attached to him. How had Angel worked away in the upper room without old George’s knowledge?
Angel might have easily explained. Indeed, Angel might have relieved their minds to a very large extent in regard to old George, for in marking down the haunt of the “Borough Lot” he had been entirely deceived as to the part played by the old man who acted as “caretaker” to the “empty” house.
In a fourwheeled cab old George, smiling foolishly and passing his hand from time to time over his tremulous mouth, listened to the admonitions of Mr. Bat Sands.
“Connor wants to know all about it,” said Bat menacingly; “and if you have been playing tricks, old man, the Lord help you.”
“The Lord help me,” smiled old George complacently.
He ran his dirty fingers through his few scanty white locks, and the smile died out of his face, and his loose mouth dropped pathetically.