"Mr. Marvel's gone," he said.
"What?"
"I was fearin' ye meant ill by him, and this mornin' I gave him back his money and let him go free."
Grey and ugly was Bullard's face; his body was rigid; his jaw worked stiffly. "You—you damned fool!"
The other drew his crumpled cap across his sweating forehead. "I was thinkin' ye wouldn't be extra pleased," he said, "but I'm for no more blood on me hands—no, nor other crimes, neither. Now," he went on, and his voice wavered, "now for the second thing. Mr. Alan Craig—"
"Idiot of idiots, he's in London at this moment! You'd better clear—that is, after I'm done with you."
"Ye give me good news, mister, for now I know for certain I've put meself right wi' Mr. Alan Craig—wait a moment!—and saved you from another dirty sin. I knows what ye had in the parcel that night, mister; I saw ye fixin' up the infernal—"
"Curse you! what are you drivelling about?"
Flitch, his face chalky, continued: "And so I sent Mr. Alan Craig a wire warnin' him that—oh! for God's sake don't look at me so! I didn't give you away!" His voice rose wildly as Bullard's hand stole to a drawer behind him. "No, no; ye shan't shoot me! I must ha' time to repent proper." He took a step forward. "I'm not goin' to hurt ye, but I'm not goin' to let ye kill me till—"
From his desk Bullard whipped a long, heavy ruler, sprang to his feet and lashed out at the other's head. "You two-faced swine!"