“Don't point that gun at me!” he blustered.
The sound of leaping footsteps and the voice of Pearsall echoed from the floor below.
“Have you got him?” he called.
Prothero made no reply, nor did he lower his pistol. When Pearsall was at his side, without turning his head, he asked in the same steady tone:
“What shall we do with him?”
The face of Pearsall was white, and furious with fear.
“I told you——” he stormed.
“Never mind what you told me,” said the Jew. “What shall we do with him? He knows!”
Ford's mind was working swiftly. He had no real fear of personal danger for the girl or himself. The Jew, he argued, was no fool. He would not risk his neck by open murder. And, as he saw it, escape with the girl might still be possible. He had only to conceal from Prothero his knowledge of the line of retreat over the house-tops, explain his rain-soaked condition, and wait a better chance.
To this end he proceeded to lie briskly and smoothly.