A figure, big and burly, brushed past him, and dashed through the open door of the dining-room.
Terrified he followed, and the figure faced round.
It was not Preene.
It was Heckett!
His face was red and swollen with passion. The great veins gorged with blood stood out like ridges, the blood-shot eyes were set like those of a tiger that bounds upon its prey.
Marston would have started back, but Heckett seized him by the arm, and, swinging him round into the centre of the room, Blood with his back against the door.
‘So, Mr. Ned Marston,’ he cried, with a fierce volley of oaths, ‘this is your game, is it? You want to get rid of me cus I knows too much, and you must set that sneaking hound of a Preene on to me, to funk me out of the blooming country. But I’m not to be caught so easy, you thundering varmint!’
‘What do you mean?’ gasped Marston.
‘Mean, you sweep? Why, I mean what I say. Preene came to me a-telling me there was a warrant out, and you was wanted, and Turvey had split; and he gave me a hundred, and told me to get over the pond as quick as lighterin’. But I was fly, guv’nor—too fly for you. I waitched Preene come in here larst night, and I guessed you wasn’t up to no good. So you’re going to retire, are you? And you wanted to get me out o’ the way, for fear I should disturb you? Oh, you’re a artful cove, you are, Ned Marston.’
Marston made no answer. His white face betrayed him; he saw himself in the power of a master-ruffian. He knew that Heckett would never forgive the attempted treachery.