Durfy, in whose bosom the glimpse of that well-lined pocket-book had roused unusual interest, found himself ready to go home a very few moments after Blandford had quitted the Shades. It may have been only coincidence, or it may have been idle curiosity to see if the tipsy lad could find his way home without an accident, or it may have been a laudable determination that, no one should take advantage of his helpless condition to deprive him of that comfortable pocket-book. Whatever it was, Durfy followed the reeling figure along the pavement as it threaded its way westward from the Shades.
Blandford may have had reason enough left to tell him that it would be better for his headache to walk in the night air than to take a cab, and Mr Durfy highly approved of the decision. He was able without difficulty or obtrusiveness to follow his man at a few yards’ distance, and even give proof of his solicitude by an occasional steadying hand on his arm.
Presently the wanderer turned out of the crowded thoroughfare up a by-street, where he had the pavement more to himself. Indeed, except for a few stragglers hurrying home from theatres or concerts, he encountered no one; and as he penetrated farther beyond the region of public houses and tobacco-shops into the serener realms of offices and chambers, and beyond that into the solitude of a West-end square, not a footstep save his own and that of his escort broke the midnight silence.
Durfy’s heart beat fast, for he had a heart to beat on occasions like this. A hundred chances on which he had never calculated suddenly presented themselves. What if some one might be peering out into the night from one of the black windows of those silent houses? Suppose some motionless policeman under the shadow of a wall were near enough to see and hear! Suppose the cool night air had already done its work and sobered the wayfarer enough to render him obstinate or even dangerous! He seemed to walk more steadily. If anything was to be done, every moment was of consequence. And the risk?
The vision of that pocket-book and the crisp white notes flashed across Durfy’s memory by way of answer.
Yes, to Durfy, the outcast, the dupe, the baffled adventurer, the risk was worth running.
He quickened his step and opened the blade of the penknife in his pocket as he did so. Not that he meant to use it, but in case—
Faugh! the fellow was staggering as helplessly as ever! He never even heeded the pursuing steps, but reeled on, muttering to himself, now close to the palings, now on the kerb, his hat back on his head and the cigar between his lips not even alight.
Durfy crept silently behind, and with a sudden dash locked one arm tightly round his victim’s neck, while with the other he made a swift dive at the pocket where lay the coveted treasure.
It was all so quickly done that before Blandford could exclaim or even gasp the pocket-book was in the thief’s hands. Then as the arm round his neck was relaxed, he faced round, terribly sobered, and made a wild spring at his assailant.