"Oh!" shivered Herries, "the razor."
"Your razor!"
"It's not mine. Let me up," and he struggled to rise.
"No. You stop here, until I send for the police. 'Liza!--ah would you?"
Herries, realizing his dreadful position, had begun to resist violently, and Narby held him down with brawny hands. As the two swung in close grips on the bed, there was a tinkling sound, and a shout from Mrs. Narby, who was red-faced and furious.
"Th' key,--th' blessed key," she screeched, picking it up from the floor, whence it had fallen off the bed. "Oh, the bloomin' Jack th' Ripper cove. He's ruined th' cussed 'ouse."
"It's a lie--a lie," breathed Herries, weakly.
Narby, with his knee on the other's chest, laughed grimly. "You'll have to prove that to a jury, my lad. The razor,--the key of the next room,--the--the--why here," he broke off to snatch at the stained shirt-sleeve, "more blood, you reptile," and he shook the young man with unrestrained anger.
"'Ow! 'Ow! 'Ow!" Mrs. Narby began to exhibit symptoms of hysteria, "he killed the pore gent. Pope,--Pope,--me darlin' boy. 'Elp! 'Elp."
"Let me up," gasped Herries, "you're stifling me."