"I cannot recall anything else at the moment," said Malcolm Sage imperturbably, as he looked across at the fellow over the top of the burning match.
"You dirty nark," burst out the man by the door, who had hitherto remained silent. "A pretty sort of stool-pigeon you are."
"Spyin' on us, wasn't you?" demanded Nigger, edging nearer to
Malcolm Sage.
"It's ten minutes past four," remarked Malcolm Sage coolly, as he glanced at his wrist-watch.
"Oh, it is, is it?" was the retort, "and in another hour it'll be ten minutes past five."
"I have to be back at my office by half-past four." Malcolm Sage looked about for some receptacle in which to throw the spent match.
"You don't say so." Again Nigger edged a little nearer; but Malcolm
Sage appeared not to notice it.
"Well, I may as well tell you that you don't leave here until eleven o'clock to-morrow night, see?"
There were murmurs of approval from the others.
"Then, perhaps, you will send out and buy me a tooth-brush," was
Malcolm Sage's quiet rejoinder.