A voice, shrill, terror in it, screamed, "Look out, man, he'll kill you!"
He turned and saw under the lamplight Craven, his eyes blazing, his finger pointed. He was suddenly cold from head to foot. The voice came, it had seemed, from heaven. Craven's eyes were alive now with certainty. Then there was another cry from somewhere of "The police!" and the crowd had melted. In the little street now there were only the body of the policeman and a handful of undergraduates.
They raised the man, poured water over him, found some of his clothes, and two men led him, his head lolling, down the street.
There was a noisy world somewhere in the distance, but here there was silence. Olva crept slowly out of his exultation and found himself in the cold windy street with Bunning for his only companion.
Bunning—now a torn, dirty, bleeding Bunning—gripped his arm.
"Did you hear?"
"Hear what?"
"Craven—when you were fighting there—Craven was watching . . . I saw it all . . . Craven suspects."
Olva met the frightened eyes—"He does not suspect."
"Didn't you hear? He called out to the cad you were going for. . . ." Then, in a kind of whimper, dismal enough in the dreary little street—"He'll find out—Craven—I know he will. . . . Oh! my God! what shall I do!"