"Wonder if this is what the guy'nor wants," he said to himself, turning it over gingerly, "tain't got no 'andle."
He thought for a moment, and then, as he had been so lucky with one vase looked into the other, and found a cross handle--he joined the two and they fitted perfectly. Being certain this was what Dowker wanted, he was thinking how he could take it, when he heard Myles ascending the stairs. Jumping down he hid the broken blade and the handle securely among his rags, being very careful not to prick himself as he remembered Dowker's warning about the poison, then he lay down on the hearthrug again, and was groaning loudly when Myles entered with the hot water.
"Feeling bad?" asked Myles sympathetically, pouring out some port wine.
"Awful," groaned Flip feeling not a bit of compunction at the treacherous part he was playing. "It's cold I think--cold and 'unger."
"Here drink this," said Desmond, kneeling down beside him, and giving him the steaming tumbler. "It will do you good."
"Thanks, guv'nor," said Flip gratefully, feeling if the broken blade was all safe, "it 'ull warm me up."
Desmond lighted his pipe and sat watching the ragged little Arab drinking the hot wine, never thinking for a moment that he was nourishing a viper--a viper that would turn and sting him. Honest himself, he never suspected wrong-doing in others, and while succouring this outcast he did not know he was doing an evil thing for himself.
After Flip had finished the wine he declared he felt better, and with many asseverations of gratitude took leave of his benefactor.
"Poor little devil!" said Desmond as he closed the door and saw the ragged little urchin scudding away into the darkness, "he seemed very bad--well I've done one good action, so perhaps it will bring me a reward."
It did, and the reward was that next morning Myles Desmond of Bloomsbury, journalist, was arrested for the murder of Lena Sarschine.