"Stand back, I tell you!"
"But upon my sacred word of honour, sir——"
"You have heard what I said, haven't you? That's enough," interrupted Narkom, sharply.
Dollops gave a swift glance at Monsieur Georges de Lesparre's face, then sullenly relinquished his hold on his prisoner, and with a knowing wink over his shoulder, busied himself with picking up his scattered and muddied papers.
"A jolly cheeky young beggar that, Mr. Narkom; I wonder you take his impertinences so lightly," said young Clavering, who seemed, somehow, to have lost a little of his self-possession now that it became evident the matter of his presence must inevitably be the topic of conversation. "I say, send him away, won't you? And if you would—er—send your friend away, too, I'd be obliged. I'd like to have a little conversation with you in private, if you don't mind."
"Certainly, Geoff. Dollops, take yourself off—hot shot!"
"Me, sir? My hat! Where'll I go? Wot'll I do, sir?"
"Go and continue what you were told to do in the first place. Gather up your traps, and be off about it."
"Oh, yuss—of course—nuthink easier than that after the way as the gent 'ere has went gallopin' all over 'em with his muddy boots!" said Dollops with apparent disgust. "Look at that for a sample of drorin', will yer?"
He slyly twitched the corner of his eye round in Cleek's direction, turned the mud-stained paper so that he should see the footprint, and mumbling and muttering shambled away in the direction of the cottage and disappeared in the mist and darkness.