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Page 87
"I wonder if the bloke'll turn up," he reflected, as he puffed rank
smoke from his mouth. "If he don't he knows what to expect--I ain't a
man to go back on my word. But I needn't fear. He'll come all right, and
he'll have the dust with him. Is it likely he'd throw away a fortune,
such as I'm offerin' him? Not a bit of it! I'll be glad when the thing
is done and over with. A thousand pounds ain't to be laughed at. I'll go
abroad and spend it, where the sun shines in winter and--"
At this point Mr. Hawker's soliloquies were interrupted by footsteps
just outside the room.
"That's my swell," he thought, "and he's a bit early. He must be in a
hurry to get hold of the documents."
The door opened quickly and sharply, and two sinewy, plainly-dressed men
stepped into the room. Hawker knew his visitors to be detectives.
His jaw dropped, his face turned livid with rage and fear, and he tried
to thrust one hand behind him. But the move was anticipated, and he
abandoned all thought of resistance when the muzzle of a revolver stared
him in the eyes.
"None of that, Hawker," said the detective who held the weapon. "You'd
best come quietly. Didn't expect to catch us napping, did you?"
"I ain't done nothin'," panted Hawker, who was breathing like a winded
beast.
"I didn't say you had," was the reply, "but you've been missing for a
few months. Last spring you stopped reporting yourself and went abroad.
We want you for that--nothing else _at present_."
The two final words were spoken with an emphasis and significance that
did not escape the prisoner, and brought a desperate look to his face.
He seemed about to show fight, but the next instant a pair of irons were
clapped on his wrists, and he was helpless.
A brief time was required to search the room, but nothing was found,
for all that Hawker owned was on his person. The bedding was pulled
apart, and the strip of ragged carpet was lifted up. Then the detectives
went downstairs with their prisoner, followed by the indignant and
scandalized Mrs. Miggs. She angrily upbraided Mr. Hawker, who received
her reproaches in sullen silence. Her breath was spent when she slammed
the door shut.
The affair had been managed quietly, without attracting public
attention, and the street was as lonely and dark as usual. One of the
detectives whistled for a cab, which he had in waiting around the
corner, and just then a man walked quickly by the house, glancing keenly
at the little group as he passed. He slouched carelessly on into the
gloom, but not until he had been recognized by Noah Hawker.
The cab came up, and the prisoner was bundled into it. He was apparently
very submissive and unconcerned as he sat with manacled hands between
his captors, but when the vehicle rolled into a more populous
neighborhood, the street lamps revealed the expression of burning,
implacable hatred that distorted his face.
"It was that swell who betrayed me to the police," he thought bitterly.
"I was a fool to trust him. I know his little game, but he'll be badly
mistaken if he expects to find the papers. They'll be safe enough till I
want them again. I'll get square in a way he don't dream of, curse him!
Yes, I'll do it! I'd rather have revenge than money. A few days yet, and
then--"
"What's that?" asked one of the detectives.
"Nothing," Mr. Hawker replied, in a tone of sarcasm. "I was thinkin' of
a friend of mine, what'll be sorry I was took."
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE VICAR OF DUNWOLD.
At a safe distance Victor Nevill stopped and turned around. When the cab
rolled away, he walked slowly back, looking keenly at the house as he
passed it. His demeanor was calm, but it was only skin deep. He felt
like swearing loudly at everybody and everything. His brain was in a
whirl of rage and fear, sharp anxiety and keen disappointment. He had
recognized Noah Hawker and seen the gleam of steel at his wrists, which
explained the situation as clearly as words could have done.
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