, the journalist proceeded to scrutinize his companion.
He was not a working man at all! True, he wore a plumber’s short blue jacket, but it only needed to note his flat cap, his brown muffler, to say nothing of the broad red sash round his waist, his velvet Zouave breeches, his elegant, down-at-heel shoes, the whole vicious cut of the fellow, to guess his vile trade.
“A fancy-man!” thought Fandor, “it was a fancy-man, a bully, was his ally! ... and the two we’ve just planted on the sidewalk are purely and simply a couple of police officers!”
But once more the other broke in on his reflections.
“’Pon my soul!” he burst out, drawing Fandor away with a friendly grip on his shoulder, “it’s a rum business, this here! ... all the same let’s pad the hoof, mate, the boulevard ain’t a healthy place for us just now, if more cops should come up.”
So Fandor and his companion raced down the street at tip-top speed and dodged in and out of a maze of dark alleys ... In five minutes the apache called a halt.
“Easy does it now,” he panted, “they’ll never nab us here.”
And then, suddenly confidential: “You know, don’t you, why my donna stopped the wench?”
Fandor, without showing a trace of surprise, replied emphatically in the negative.
“Why, look’ee, old chap, I’d told Nini—Nini my doxy’s called—I’d told her when I saw your girl go by, ‘Look,