Marston led the way below like a man in a dream.
He could hardly realize that he was free of Heckett, and that the terrible scene he had just gone through was mere pretence.
He had endured the agony of discovery—he had passed in those few minutes through the supremest torture. Now he could foresee what awaited him if ever he should be run to earth in stern reality.
The man outside was only slightly wounded, and was able to go with the one who had been stationed in front to the hospital. It was a flesh wound, and nothing serious.
When they were alone Preene explained fully to the astonished Marston what he had done. ‘I wouldn’t tell you before because I relied upon your terror to do the trick. If you hadn’t been frightened, Heckett would have smelt a rat. By Jove! you were in a state, Marston. I don’t think you’ll die game, you know.’
‘Don’t, for Heaven’s sake,’ cried Marston, with a shudder. ‘But these men, what will they think?’
‘That I came up here to arrest a suspected swindler, and that he’s got clear away. They know me. Heckett will clear off now double quick, and you won’t see him in a hurry. He’s bound to believe it was a genuine arrest, and he’s shot a policeman, and, for all he knows, killed him.’
Marston drew a long breath, and poured himself out half a tumblerful of brandy.
‘It would almost have been a good job if he had killed him quite,’ he said, with a ghastly smile. ‘I fancy even Josh Heckett would hesitate about running his head into a noose.’
Preene elevated his eyebrows.