"You do. I know you do. You take dat wonderful ding we call life—for sport. You rob me. Dat is a smaller ding, but it is sport also. Mein Gott! but you shall rob and kill no more."
He struck a bell. Lucas backed to the wall to be ready for emergencies. A little sharp-featured man entered.
"Here he is, Mr. Marvell," said Meyer. "I have got him red-handed and cold-souled."
"That's right, sir," said the little man briskly, producing a pair of handcuffs. "I'll take him across to Bournemouth, and we'll have him up at the police court in the morning."
Mr. Meyer did not appear to have heard him. "Strange, is it not?" he resumed, "dat you and I and Mr. Marvell, de clever detective, should be here, Mr. Lucas? No, I will call you by your broper name. Sir Rubert Inkledree, I ask you to listen."
He took up a red volume from the table.
"Dis is a useful book," he said, as he opened it. "We are all entered up here, all our public appearances, dat is—not our midnight photokraphings. Ah, here it is:
"'Sir Rubert Inkledree, seventh baronet, born 1868, only son of sixth baronet and Mary, daughter of Viscount Morecambe. Educated Eton and Christ Church, Oxford. Owns twenty tousand acres. Address: Inkledree Castle, Leicestershire; 57, Brook Street, W. Clubs: Bachelor's, Boodle's, Turf.'
"Dat is fine—for a bekinning," continued Meyer; "but what an end, Sir Rubert, in dis room wid Mr. Meyer whom you have robbed, and a detective, and de Bournemouth Police Court in de morning. Dat is not very fine. Now listen akain."
He turned over the leaves and read:—