“Why,” said Bar, beaming benignly on the stranger, through his new spectacles, “it isn’t your pocketbook. I’ve been considering the matter, and I’ve decided to turn the property over to the police authorities. There’s a policeman now, just turned the corner.”
A great oath burst from the lips of the stranger, which were white with rage and disappointment, but Bar had buttoned his coat over the pocketbook and was standing in an attitude which looked very much as if he had learned it from a boxing-master.
There was no joke about the approach of the policeman, however, and one look at his blue coat and brass buttons seemed quite enough for the stranger. At all events, he swore another ugly oath, shook his fist savagely at Bar, and darted briskly away across the square.
“Anything the matter, sir?” asked the policeman, as he stepped quickly up to our hero.
“Can’t say,” drawled Bar, “but I’m half inclined to think that gentleman had improper designs. I do not like his appearance and have declined to transact any business with him.”
“That’s right, sir. Well known—bad character. Strangers can’t be too much on their guard,” responded the representative of the law, as a broad grin spread across his face.
When he had walked on a few steps, however, he growled to himself:
“Wonder what game it was? Anyhow, that prig in spectacles isn’t the sort that’ll be swallowed whole. Sometimes those green-looking, respectable chaps knows more’n we think they do, and where on earth they can pick it up beats me.”
As for Bar Vernon, he turned once more towards the great thoroughfare, only remarking:
“That fellow don’t come up to Major Montague. Now, what’ll I do with the pocketbook? It’s a right good one, and I must see what it’s stuffed with.”