Part 8 (2/2)

Jones looked at him.

”You are wasting a lot of muscular energy,” said he. ”My determination is made, and it holds. You are going to prison, Mr. Filthy Beast, Voles.

I'm up against you, that's the plain truth. I'm going to cut you open, and show your inside to the British Public. They'll be so lost in admiration at the sight, they won't bother about the woman or me.

They'll call us public benefactors, I reckon. You know men, and you know when a man is determined. Look at me, look at me in the face, you sumph--”

A knock came to the door.

Jones took the key from his pocket and opened the door.

”The constable is here, my Lord,” said the servant.

”Tell him to come in,” said Jones.

Voles had taken up his hat again, and he stood now by the table, hat in hand, looking exactly what he was, a criminal on his defence.

The constable was a fresh-looking and upstanding young man; he had removed his helmet and was carrying it by the chin strap. He had no bludgeon, no revolver, yet he impressed Jones almost as much as he impressed the other.

”Officer,” said Jones. ”I have called you in for the purpose of giving this man in charge for attempting--”

”Stop,” cried Voles.

Then something Oriental in his nature took charge of him. He rushed forward with arms out, as though to embrace the policeman.

”It is all a mistake,” cried he, ”constable, one moment, go outside one moment, leave me with his lords.h.i.+p. I will explain. There is nothing wrong, it is all a big mistake.”

The constable held him off, glancing for orders at Jones.

Jones felt no vindictiveness towards Voles now; disgust, such as he might have felt towards a vulture or a cormorant, but no vindictiveness.

He wanted that eight thousand pounds.

He had determined to make good in his new position, to fight the world that Rochester had failed to fight, and overcome the difficulties sure to be ahead of him. Voles was the first great difficulty, and lo, it seemed, that he was about not only to destroy it, but turn it to a profit. He did not want the eight thousand for himself, he wanted it for the game; and the fascination of that great game he was only just beginning to understand.

”Go outside, officer,” said he to the constable.

He shut the door. ”Sit down and write,” said he. Voles said not a word.

He went to the table, sat down and picked up the pen. The cheque was still lying there. He drew it towards him. Then he flung the pen down.

Then he picked it up, but he did not write. He waved it between finger and thumb, as though he were beating time to a miniature orchestra staged on the table before him. Then he began to write.

He was making out a cheque to the Earl of Rochester for the sum of eight thousand pounds, no s.h.i.+llings, no pence.

He signed it A. S. Voles.

He was about to cross it, but Jones stopped him. ”Leave it open,” said he, ”and now one thing more, I must have those papers to-morrow morning without fail. And to make certain of them you must do this.”

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