De Socotra coming up with them commanded: "Do not linger here. There is no one in sight. Scatter in different directions. Do not run. You are safe enough. There is nothing to connect you with the Ninth Street house. Go! You will hear from me in due course."
They melted away, leaving only de Socotra and the negro in the passage. The latter had dropped Greg to the pavement. It was of brick, and a tiny trickle of cold water ran down the middle of it. The negro made some whining complaint to his master that Greg could not catch.
"Oh, crack him over the head!" said de Socotra impatiently. "Stick his body in some out of the way corner, and go to your own place. Don't leave the rope behind for evidence."
That was the last Greg knew. Oddly enough he heard the sound of the blow that he did not feel. Consciousness was snuffed out.
CHAPTER V
THE TAXI YARD
Greg came to to find himself in a sort of deep narrow well with rough stone walls on either hand and flag-stones beneath him. He was sensible that he was not alone, but his companion was no more than a hazy shape between him and the strip of pale sky far overhead. A strong odor mixed of stable manure and stale whiskey nauseated him. He was sore all over and there was a splitting pain inside his skull. He had no sooner opened his eyes than he was glad to close them.
As from a distance he heard a voice, husky but kind, say: "Don't think you ain't got no bones broke, Jack. Can you get up?"
Opening his eyes again Greg saw a deplorably dirty, unshaven face bending over him, but the blear eyes were compassionate. If one could overlook the dirt and forget the spirituous emanation, there was something taking about the face, a quality of childlike innocence of soul. The voice went on:
"Say, can't you get up? We want to get out of here before they open up the stable. These stable fellas are fierce and fresh. Ain't got no guts."