George read the strange epistle through. It was of little use to him now; he could not show himself in his assumed character. Richard Blount and the manner of his disappearance must remain a mystery. So far as he was concerned, he could lend no assistance in the proposed scheme. He tore the letter up, burning the scraps; but, after considering, he determined, however, to keep the appointment with the man with the snuff-box that evening.
At five o'clock, with a worsted shawl of Mrs. Mack's bound tightly about his throat and a heavy fur cap drawn around his ears, he was stamping his heels together like a butcher's apprentice, a basket on his arm, at the corner of Johnson's Lane. Three or four people passed him, but he saw no signs of a man with a tendency to tap on his snuff-box. At last, as he looked down the lane, he perceived a small figure walking toward him with a quick nervous step. George did not know what to do, for he recognized at once that it was Mr. Anderson. Strange to say, as he was approaching he drew a snuff-box from his pocket. Then with a flood of light it dawned upon the lad that Mr. Anderson was one of the "Seven," and he understood why he had not been recognized, and also knew that there was an able hand at the helm.
As the little man approached, a tall figure also appeared about the corner, and strode after the schoolmaster with long swinging steps. George saw at once that it was the young officer who had breakfasted with him the day before. They would soon be within speaking distance. Taking a few hasty steps he darted about the corner, dropping his basket as he ran. So quick had been the movement that he was not in time to dodge a great lanky man who was walking quickly from the opposite direction, and he ran right into his arms. So great was his impetus that the man fell back against the wall of a brick house, and his huge watch flew out of his pocket and was dashed to pieces.
"FROTHINGHAM! FROTHINGHAM!" THE OLD CLERK TRIED TO SAY.
"You thieving villain! Stop thief—stop!" exclaimed the stranger, making a grasp for George's shoulder. But now the lad's great strength once more served him in good stead. He struck down the other's arm, and as he did so gasped, for the person he had run into was none other than Abel Norton, his old chief clerk. Abel's other hand had firm hold upon the woollen comforter, and George caught him by the throat and twisted him backwards across his knee. "Frothingham! Frothingham!" the old clerk tried to say.
Here was an added danger. He was recognized! The two men must now be almost at the corner. With a final effort George tore himself away, and started down the alley at a run. He knew that farther on there was a big lumber-yard that opened on the main street. If he could reach there ahead of the others, he might manage to escape.
Abel's first cries, however, had brought a number of people from the public-houses, and the young officer and Mr. Anderson came about the corner of the lane. George's fleeing figure was in plain sight.
"Stop thief!" the officer shouted, and leaped forward with the stride of a swift runner.
"Stop thief!" echoed Abel Norton, and strange to say, the old man caught up with the redcoat easily, and, stranger still, appeared to slip and fall upon his heels. Down they both went.