Essex drew closer, his mouth tight, his eyes fixed with a fiercely compelling gaze on the wretch before him.
“Don’t think you can make anything by stealing that paper. Give it up; give it up now; I’ve got you here, and I’ll know what you’ve done with it before you leave or you’ll never leave at all.”
“I lost it, and that’s what I done with it. If you want it, come on with me now and look round under that tree. Ain’t you understood I fell sideways from the branch to the ground? Look at my hand—” he held up his arm, pulling the muddy sleeve back from the blood-stained wrist.
“Where is it?” said Essex, without moving. “You were gone nearly an hour. Where have you hidden it?”
“Nowheres. It took time. I had to clim’ up careful, ’cause she had a light burning, and I thought she was awake. Why can’t you believe me? What can I do with it alone?”
“You can blackmail Mrs. Shackleton well enough alone. Give me that paper, or tell me where you put it, or, by God, I’ll kill you!”
Fear of the man that owned him gave Harney the air of guilt. He backed away in an access of pallid terror, shouting:
“I ain’t lying. Why can’t yer believe me? It took time—it took time! Ain’t I told you I fell? Look at the mud; and feel, feel in every pocket.” He seized on them and tore the insides outward. “I’m tellin’ you the whole truth. I ain’t got it.”
“Where is it, then? You’ll tell me where you’ve hidden it, or—”
Essex made a sudden leap forward and caught the man by his neck-cloth and collar. In his blind alarm Harney was given fictitious strength, and he tore himself loose and rushed for the door. Essex’s hat, coat and stick lay on the table. Without thought or premeditation their owner seized the cane—a heavy malacca—by the end, flew round the table, and as Harney turned the door-handle, brought the knob of the loaded cane down on the crown of his head.