“Ay, I know. If the police have not tracked me here; and I think I have given them the slip,” said Stebbings, counting the notes before putting them away. “Now the sooner you are off the better.”
“It is a chilly night,” said Daireh, producing his flask, “and I am going to have a sup of whisky. Will you have a drop?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” replied Stebbings.
And the Egyptian filled the metal cup and handed it to him.
“Here’s better luck,” he said, taking a mouthful.
Then suddenly he spat it out again.
“No, hang me, if I will trust you!” he cried. “And there is a queer taste about it, too!”
“What nonsense!” said Daireh, forcing a laugh. “It is good whisky, very good; I had a glass just before I left. Well, good-night, for all your bad suspicions.”
And Daireh walked quickly away in the direction of the road which led to the station. When he was well hidden from the quarry he poured away the rest of what was in the flask.
“If he had but swallowed it,” he muttered fiercely between his teeth, “I should have been two hundred pounds richer, and safe!”