A heavy hand fell across his shoulder.
"I've got you, my boy!" A voice shouted in his ear. "I seen you kneeling there beside her. You'll be coming along with me!"
He turned to face the voice.
The wind that heralded the coming storm rustled through the street, carrying with it a litter of filthy castaway newspapers. Flurries of stinging sand-sharp dust swirled above the pavement. A low rumble of thunder bellowed overhead. Then the rain came down in sudden lashing fury.
He had to raise his voice to make himself heard.
"I'm velee glad," he said.
The bull's eye was flashed into his placid, narrow eyes.
He could see the policeman's face behind the light; see the surprise quivering on the red features.
In the darkness above the racket of the storm, he heard the man's gasping mutter:
"Yellow—by God!—Yellow!"