“Yes, yes, he’s gotten her away.”
“It’s a lie,” cried Joe Banks again. “Tell ’em, Maister Dick; tell the cowards they lie.”
“Yes, yes,” said Richard hoarsely, as he stood now leaning against the wall, bathed in perspiration, bleeding, ragged, haggard, and faint. “I have not got her away.”
“Thee lies, Dick Glaire,” shrieked Sim. “He paid me to get her awaya, and I wouldn’t do it.”
“It’s false,” cried Richard again, as he looked round at his fierce pursuers, and then at the doors and windows for a way of escape.
“It’s true,” cried Sim, exultantly. “It’s my turn now, Dick Glaire. Yow’d smite me and coot me feace for not doing thee dirty work, will ta? Now harkye here, lads, at this.”
He drew a piece of paper from his pocket, and read aloud:—
“Be ready at nine to-night. She’ll join you by the gate of Lamby’s close; then straight off with her to the station, take your tickets, as I told you, to London, and stay with her at the address I gave you till I come.”
“Now then, Joe Banks,” he said, holding out the note, “whose writing’s that?”
“It’s a lie—a forgery,” cried Richard, whose face now was of a sickly green.