“All right; no answer,” he said, without breaking the seal.
Martin hurried away, wondering how the man knew there was no answer before he had read the letter.
He had got about half-way to his destination in Middle Temple Lane when two men rushed suddenly out of a narrow doorway and almost knocked him down. As he staggered, he felt a tug at the parcel he carried under his arm.
Tightening his grip upon it, he drew himself away, but next moment a sharp blow behind his knees threw him to the ground.
“It’s under him; quick about it,” said a hoarse voice very much like Mr. Mumford’s.
Martin had fallen on the parcel. He realised now that the men were trying to steal it, and he grasped it with both arms, and called aloud for help.
One of the men instantly clapped his hand over Martin’s mouth, while the other sought to wrench the parcel from his clinging arms. He kicked out with his feet, pressed with all his weight upon the parcel, and desperately resisted the man’s attempt to turn him over on his back.
But his assailant was a man of brawn. The struggle was hopeless. As Martin was heaved violently over, his mouth was released for a moment from the clutching hand, and he let out a piercing cry. A heavy shoe kicked him; once more he was stifled; but his cry had been heard; there was an answering shout and the clatter of feet on the cobblestones down the street.
The ruffians made one more attempt to wrest the parcel away. Failing, they kicked him again, and made off just in time to escape the sturdy watermen who had rushed to the spot.
“Why, it’s young Master Leake,” said one of them, lifting him from the ground. “What’s amiss?”