He strode towards the door, upon which at that moment there was a loud tapping; and before he could reach it, Bob stood in the opening, very rough of head, very ragged, and looking as if he had not been washed since he was missed.
Chapter Sixteen.
Bob is Explanatory.
“Here, boy,” cried Poynter, “quick! Fetch a policeman. Half-a-crown.”
He thrust his hand into his pocket, but at that moment even that outrageously large sum had not the slightest effect upon the boy, who looked quickly round from one to the other till his eyes lit upon Mark, at whom he rushed with the notion of a well-trained dog, seizing him by the arm and breast of his coat, and clinging tightly.
“I’ve got him,” he said shrilly. “Fetch the perlice. I’ve got him, Miss Rich; I see him come that night.”
Poynter raised his fist, and struck it into his open hand.
“I knew it!” he cried. “I knew I was right! Now, Mr Mark Heath, what have you got to say?”