"No, not now. She'll be back in a few days."
"Perhaps. Oh, these consciences. Thank God, I haven't one."
His mother stood up and looked at him sorrowfully. "I don't believe you have very much, Charlie, but pray God you may get one."
Darwen laughed. "That's alright, mater. I've got a jolly good conscience, but I keep it in the background," he said.
Carstairs stood up and held out his hand to Mrs Darwen. "Good night. I'm afraid I've kept you up."
"Oh no," she said. "Drop in whenever you can."
"Thanks, I will." He went out into the night and wended his way slowly home. As he turned the corner of the long tree-shaded street in which his diggings were, a man sprang out of a shrubbery behind, and rushed at him with a heavy bludgeon. Carstairs, lost in reverie, pivoted on his heels at the sound, and ducking mechanically as the stick descended, shot out a straight left for the man's face. It was not a heavy blow, but now thoroughly awakened, he stepped in and followed up with a terrific right hand drive on the chin.
He dropped like a log, and Carstairs bent over him, looking into his face. Even by the dim light of the distant gas lamp, he recognised his old acquaintance Sam Lee, the gipsy. He was not knocked out, but only partly dazed by the blow, and as Carstairs bent over him, he suddenly lashed out with a huge hobnailed boot and caught him a vicious kick in the stomach. Writhing in pain, Carstairs collapsed in the gutter, helpless.
The gipsy staggered to his feet, and picking up his bludgeon made towards him. Just then a large, dark form loomed suddenly into view round the corner. A bull's-eye lantern flashed a sudden light on the scene, and Sam Lee sprinted off down the road with a particularly limping shuffle, but at a good speed. The policeman started in pursuit, but gave it up as hopeless before he had gone very far; he stopped, blew a shrill call on his whistle, and returned to Carstairs who had now got upon his feet, still bent double with pain.
"What is it, sir?" he asked. "Robbery with violence, or what?"