“I live in a cottage, but I am unaware that I mentioned the fact.”
“Ah, it must have been my imagination. It plays one tricks. I am full of imaginations and fancies to-day. For instance, in the bar a moment ago I fancied I knew your face.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. I fancied there was a resemblance between you and an artist named Müller, no, no, an artist named Kolbecker. Ah! there I am again, my memory is playing me false. Upon my word, if this goes on I shall resign my position and my trade, which, after all, is a dirty trade, seeing that it is the trade of catching murderers and delivering them to the hangman. Klein was the name of the artist, he was a sculptor.”
The other said nothing, his face was still immobile, but a great drop of sweat was coursing down the side of it.
The clouds were rolling in funereal masses over Reading and spreading towards the southern sky. A few large drops of rain fell on the dust of the road and the occasional grumbling of thunder sounded as if from a vast distance.
The road took a turn upon itself, and there, a hundred yards or so away in front of them, well set back from the highway and half hidden by a hedge, lay a cottage.
Freyberger was only waiting now to discover the living place of the man beside him before arresting him.
They were nearly level with the cottage gate, when, unperceived by Freyberger, the old man’s left hand stole into the old man’s pocket.
Next moment Freyberger, with a gasping cry and hands outspread, fell face forward in the dust of the road—sandbagged.