Mr. Higgs threw truth to the winds. “I heard them in the shop,” he said, recovering, “that's why I took up the poker. Can't you hear them?”
Mr. Burge listened for the fraction of a second. “Nonsense,” he said huskily.
“I heard them talking,” said the other recklessly. “Let's go down and call the police.”
“Call 'em from the winder,” said Brother Burge, backing with some haste, “they might 'ave pistols or something, and they're ugly customers when they're disturbed.”
He stood with strained face listening.
“Here they come,” whispered the jeweller with a sudden movement of alarm.
Brother Burge turned, and bolting into his room clapped the door to and locked it. The jeweller stood dumbfounded on the landing; then he heard the window go up and the voice of Brother Burge, much strengthened by the religious exercises of the past six months, bellowing lustily for the police.
For a few seconds Mr. Higgs stood listening and wondering what explanation he should give. Still thinking, he ran downstairs, and, throwing open the pantry window, unlocked the door leading into the shop and scattered a few of his cherished possessions about the floor. By the time he had done this, people were already beating upon the street-door and exchanging hurried remarks with Mr. Burge at the window above. The jeweller shot back the bolts, and half-a-dozen neighbours, headed by the butcher opposite, clad in his nightgown and armed with a cleaver, burst into the passage. A constable came running up just as the pallid face of Brother Burge peered over the balusters. The constable went upstairs three at a time, and twisting his hand in the ex-burglar's neck-cloth bore him backwards.
“I've got one,” he shouted. “Come up and hold him while I look round.”
The butcher was beside him in a moment; Brother Burge struggling wildly, called loudly upon the name of Brother Higgs.