“Oh, quit this fooling,” replied the other. “I’ve no time for such stuff—what are you doing now?”
“Ringing the bell,” said Jones.
Voles, just about to pick up the cheque, paused. He seemed to find himself at fault for a moment. The jungle beast, that hears the twig crack beneath the foot of the man with the express rifle, pauses like that over his bloody meal on the carcass of the decoy goat.
The door opened and a servant appeared, it was the miracle with calves.
“Send out at once, and bring in an officer—a policeman,” said Jones.
“Yes, my Lord.”
The door shut.
Voles jumped up, and seized his hat. Jones walked to the door and locked it, placing the key in his pocket.
“I’ve got you,” said he, “and I’m going to squeeze you, and I’m going to make you squeal.”
“You’re going to—you’re going to—you’re going to—” said Voles. He was the colour of old ivory.