Someone was singing a wild song in a drunken voice; and when the clerk peered through the window--for there was no blind--he saw a man dancing in the middle of the room. A cheap oil lamp was on the table, and by its light the dancer executed his fandango, waving a bottle as he did so. The apartment was bare, and a horrible smell of petroleum was wafted to Jerry's nostrils. In his curiosity he forgot to keep himself concealed, and Job--for he was the dancer--saw him. He flung himself across the room, and before Jerry had realised his danger the gypsy had seized him; by the collar of his coat and was dragging him through the window. "Come in, come in, Satan!" yelled the drunken man. "We'll have another murder! Ho!
"Let me go--let me go!" screeched Jerry; but he was like a rabbit caught in a snare, and shortly found himself in a heap on a petroleum-soaked floor, while Job closed the window, Hutt was terrified; but he could see no means of escape.
"Have a drink," shouted Job, thrusting the bottle under Mr. Hutt's nose.
"You let me go," he whispered, clinging to a chair. "If you don't, my master will set the police on to you see if he don't."
"The police!" cried Job. "What do I care for them! They can't do anything to me; she'll keep them off--she will. I can shew up her husband it she don't. Drink, drink, or I'll kick you!"
Partly to avert the carrying-out of this threat, and partly because he was extremely dry with his race across country, Jerry accepted the offer, and as the ardent spirits went down his throat, he felt his courage revive.
"I'm Jerry Hutt," he exclaimed, "and I work for Mr. Roper. I want the bill--the bill!" He made a grab at the gypsy. "It will lay him by the heels," he hissed.
"Lay who by the heels, hang you?" cried Job, pushing him back.
"Why, Marshall--I won't call him 'Mister' Marshall--who killed my poor dear Miss Elsa."
Job, half stupid with drink, had yet the sense to gather the meaning of the words. "Blest if I won't know of the red pocket-book, too," he muttered.