The cunning of a lifetime failed him in that moment. He slipped through the door, but his coat caught in a splinter of wood, and the rending of it gave the alarm. As with quaking heart he ran up the silent stable-yard towards the Strand gate he felt close on him the wind of the pursuit. In the dark he slipped on a patch of horse-dung and was down. Something heavy fell atop of him, and the next second a gross agony tore the breath from him.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Five minutes later Bedloe was unknotting a coarse kerchief and stuffing it into his pocket. It was the same that had strangled Godfrey.
“A good riddance,” said Oates. “The fool had seen too much and would have proved but a saarry witness. Now by the mairciful dispensation of Goad he has ceased to trouble us. Ye know him, Captain Bedloe?”
“A Papistical cur, and white-livered at that,” the bravo answered.
“And his boady? It must be praamptly disposed of.”
“An easy task. There is the Savoy water-gate and in an hour the tide will run. He has no friends to inquire after him.”
Oates rubbed his hands and cast his eyes upward. “Great are the doings of the Laard,” he said, “and wonderful in our saight!”