Suddenly the professional aspect of the case burst on me like a shower of glorious sunshine.
“Oh, for the chance!” I said, brokenly. “Speed! Think of it! Think how completely we have the thing in hand!”
“Yes,” he said, with a shrug, “only we have just been kicked out of the service in disgrace, and we are now going to be fully occupied in running away from the police.”
That was true enough; I had scarcely had time to realize our position as escaped suspects of the department. And with the recognition of my plight came a rush of hopeless rage, of bitter regret, and soul-sickening disappointment.
So this was the end of my career—a fugitive, disgraced, probably already hunted. This was my reward for faithful service—penniless, almost friendless, liable to arrest and imprisonment with no hope of justice from Emperor or court-martial—a banned, ruined, proscribed outcast, in blind flight.
“I’ve thought of the possibility of this,” observed Speed, quietly. “We’ve got to make a living somehow. In fact, I’m to let—and so are you.”
I looked at him, too miserable to speak.
“I had an inkling of it,” he said. A shrewd twinkle came into his clear, Yankee eyes; he chewed his wrecked cigar and folded his lank arms.
“So,” he continued, tranquilly, blinking at the sparkling river, “I drew out all my money—and yours, too.”
“Mine!” I stammered. “How could you?”