Then came a tremendous blow; then a foot was seen forcing its way over the doorsill, another moment, and the barrier to the entrance of the invaders gave way with a rattling crash.
Chapter Seven.
Bitter Fruit.
No sooner was the door burst open, than in rushed several stout men, who proceeded to seize and handcuff the four strangers, who made but the faintest show of resistance. John Gubbins shook with abject terror, as he tried in vain to double up his fat person into a small compass in a corner. Jim Forbes stood speechless for a moment, and then darted out through the open doorway. As for Mark Rothwell, what with shame and dismay, and semi-intoxication from whisky punch, his position and appearance were anything but enviable. He recovered himself, however, in a few minutes, and turned fiercely on the intruders.
“By what right, and by whose authority,” he cried, “do you dare to break into my coachman’s house, and to lay violent hands on these gentlemen?”
“By this warrant, young sir,” said the chief of the invading party, producing a parchment. “I’m a detective; I’ve been looking after these gentlemen a long time; they are part of a regular gang of pickpockets and swindlers, and we’ve a case or two against ’em as ’ll keep ’em at home, under lock and key, for a bit. I’m sorry we’ve been so rough, but I was afraid of losing ’em. I didn’t think to find ’em in such company, and I hope, young gent, if you’ll let me give you a word of advice, that you’ll keep clear of such as these for the future for your own sake.”
Alas! Poor Mark! Crestfallen and wretched, he slunk away home.