The servant figured for a moment on the back of an envelope.
"Ninety-eight for friend Bertram; ninety-five for the chief. Congratulations to you, my man! Sorry, chief. I fear you're getting old!"
The alert man who had been so unceremoniously superseded stepped off the little platform. He did not look particularly concerned, thought Trenmore-not at all like a man condemned to lose both means of living and life.
"It's all in the game, Mr. Virtue," he observed cheerfully. "Tell the boys to send lilies of the valley. When's the funeral?"
"Some other time, chief," retorted Virtue with equal jocosity. "The pit is not working right to-day."
"The cheerful liar!" muttered Trenmore. "Now tell me, Viola, what's the meaning of yonder small comedy?"
The girl, white-lipped and sick at heart, laughed mirthlessly. "What does it matter? At least, neither Bertram nor the other is to be murdered. Terry, if Mr. Drayton does not return soon, what shall we do when our time comes?"
"He will return-he must-but now what's wrong with the little round man?"
It was evident that Bertram was in a difficulty of some sort. The displaced chief of police had him firmly by the collar. Mr. Virtue was glaring at him with an expression of incredulous wrath, while Cleverest strode toward them, anxiety in every line of his sharp features.
Terence and Viola were at that time unable to understand the disgrace of Bertram and his immediately subsequent condemnation. It appeared only that during their three minutes' conversation with one another the burglar had committed some act so unpardonable that even the intercession of Cleverest did not avail him. Apparently the act had been witnessed by every one present save the two remaining candidates. The accusation was not even formulated in words.