He did not glance back. He knew that only amateurs did things like that. The five years in Dartmoor had taught him that liberty was a priceless thing. There were guards and constables on that dark street. Some turned and watched his fleeting form with suspicion. Any moment one might call a halt. Every second, he expected to hear a shout from MacKeenon.
The high tower of Westminster loomed over the housetops. Beyond this tower was the House of Parliament. At its base ran the sullen flood of the Thames. Over the river a bridge arched, strangely pale in the night light.
Gripping his palms, and somewhat surprised to find the overcoat over his arm, he turned at the Embankment and there swept the street with the corner of his eye. No man followed him. A single constable, half curious, had stepped out on the asphalt. He stood like a post, his hands on his bent knees.
“Adieu, sir,� Fay laughed lightly. “Adieu, you there, and you Keenon and you, Richard. You both
would have let me rot in that hell on earth if you hadn’t needed me. From now on, I’m a free agent! And the world is wide.�
Breathing the night air, Fay hurried toward the east. His shoulders were squared and his heels and toes clicked over the hard stone without visible effort.
He walked in the same swinging gait until he reached the place where the black shadow of Cleo’s Needle lifted against the leaden vault of the London sky.
Here he turned and leaned over the Embankment’s rail, The tide flowed slowly toward the city and the sea. Bridges arched from shore to shore. Great caravansaries loomed with their staring windows arranged in shelf-like tiers. Beyond them sounded the roar of midnight traffic.
A sudden loneliness came over him. He was without home or friends. The years at Dartmoor had effaced many memories. They left one which was overpowering. How little was human effort. There had been a time when flash thieves with international reputations had pointed him out at the St. James and Alhambra Lounge, as the king of cracksmen. The time was gone. The old crew had either been caught or had died overseas on the red fields of Flanders. Few served or continued their profession.
Saidee Isaacs loomed before him. He searched the Thames and found her face there. He closed his eyes and marked her flashing presence. He saw her dark hair, her lashes, her olive cheeks and Madonna smile. That same smile could change between the time of seconds to hate and rage. Dutch Gus, who should