"A rough looking handful, they say, sort of a gipsy, a bit lame in one leg, but he ran like a hare. Strong as a tiger too, nearly strangled the footman before help arrived. The police have noticed him skulking round that neighbourhood for some time."
"Is that so? Well, he's done us a good turn, anyhow." Carstairs was very casual, very slow, there was no emotion whatever in his voice; he said, "good night," and rang off. "Ye gods," he ejaculated to himself. "That's my way home, of course. Wonder what he'll get? Jewellery in his pockets, too, those great big pockets, built for hares and pheasants. 'To what ignoble uses,' etc., as Darwen would say. Still 'living on the country,' I suppose, as they call it in warfare."
About a quarter of an hour afterwards he saw Darwen and Bounce. It was with a keen sense of amusement that he observed them "shadowing" him. He slipped into a gateway and waited unobserved till they approached, and then sprang out on them unawares.
"What the devil are you chaps following me for?" he demanded with mock severity.
"Hang it all, Carstairs, you fool. Play the game! You've probably spoilt the whole show now."
"I'm sorry, but it's not necessary now, the man's in 'quod' for burgling."
"What!"
Carstairs told them the tale.
"Well, I'm blowed, these 'ere police are always shoving their noses into somebody else's business," Bounce growled.
That night Carstairs slept with singular peacefulness.