"I'll come back to-morrow," he cried over his shoulder, as he hurried unceremoniously out of the room and out of the house.
A disreputable-looking man stood at the door of his waiting taxi and obsequiously opened it. Shouting his address to the driver, Cyril flung himself into the car and waved the beggar impatiently away.
No sooner were they in motion than Cyril hastened to open the bag. A brown paper parcel lay at the bottom of it. He undid the string with trembling fingers. Yes, it was as he feared—a part, if not all, of the Wilmersley jewels lay before him.
"Give me a penny, for the love of Gawd," begged a hoarse voice at his elbow. The beggar was still clinging to the step and his villainous face was within a foot of the jewels.
Cyril felt himself grow cold with apprehension. The fellow knew who he was, and followed him. He was a detective!
"A gen'lman like you could well spare a poor man a penny," the fellow whined, but there was a note of menace in his voice. Cyril tried to get a good look at him, but the light was too dim for him to distinguish his features clearly.
Hastily covering the jewels, Cyril thrust a coin into the grimy hand.
"Go!" he commanded, "go, or I'll call the police."
The man sank out of sight.
"My poor little girl, my poor little girl," murmured Cyril disconsolately, as he glanced once more at the incriminating jewels.