Neither man moved. Without removing his eyes from the butler or uncovering him, Bulstrode, by means of the messenger-call to the right of the window, summoned the police. The metallic click of the button sounded loud in the room.
Ruggles shook his great hand high in air.
"I'd—I'd——"
"Never mind that," interrupted the householder. "The man who's going had better take his chance. There's one minute lost."
During the next half-second the modern philanthropist breathed in suspense. It was so on the cards that he might be obliged to apologize to his antipathetic butler and find himself sentimentally sold by Waring!
But Ruggles it was who with a parting oath stepped to the door—accelerating his pace as the daze began to pass a little from his brain, and snatched the hat and coat, unlocked the front door, opened it, looked quickly up and down the white streets, and then without a word cut down the steps and across Washington Square, slowly at first, and then on a run.
Bulstrode turned to his visitor.
"Come," he said, "let's go up to bed."
"But," stammered the young man, "you're never going to let him go like that?"
"Yes, I am," confessed the unpractical gentleman. "I couldn't send a man to jail on Christmas day."