An hour later, the candlelight vanished from the upper room with the open casements and the undrawn blinds, but it was two hours before Mr Yarde’s head appeared above the window-sill, and not a light shone in the village.
The moon, sailing across a sky of deepest sapphire, cast a bar of silver across the floor of the chamber, but left the four-poster bed in shadow. The ascent, by way of the porch-roof, a stout drain-pipe, and a gnarled branch of wistaria, had been easy, but Mr Yarde paused before swinging a leg over the sill. His eye, trying to penetrate the darkness, encountered a drab driving-coat, hanging over the back of a chair placed full in the shaft of moonlight. He knew that coat, and a tiny sigh escaped him. He hoisted himself up, and noiselessly slid into the room. He had left his shoes below, and his stockinged-feet made no sound on the floor, as he crept across it.
But there was no heavy leather sack-purse in the pocket of the driving-coat.
He was disappointed, but he had been prepared for disappointment. He stole out of the moonlight to the bedside, listening to the sound of quiet breathing. No tremor disturbed its regularity, and after listening to it for a few minutes, he bent, and began cautiously to slide his hand under the dimly-seen pillow. The other, his right, grasped a muffler, which could be readily clapped over a mouth opened to utter a startled cry.
The cry, hardly more than a croak, strangled at birth, was surprised out of himself, however, for, just as his sensitive fingers felt the object for which they were seeking, two iron hands seized him by the throat, and choked him.
He tore quite unavailingly at the hold, realizing through the drumming in his ears, the bursting of his veins, and the pain in his temples, that he had made a mistake, that the hands crushing the breath out of him certainly did not belong to any stripling.
Just as he seemed to himself to be losing possession of his senses, the grip slackened, and a voice he was learning to hate, said softly: “Your error, Mr Yarde!”
He felt himself shaken and suddenly released, and, being quite powerless to help himself, fell to the floor and stayed there, making odd crowing noises as he got his wind back. By the time he had recovered sufficiently to struggle on to one elbow, Sir Richard had cast off the coverlet, and sprung out of bed. He was dressed in his shirt and breeches, as Mr Yarde’s suffused eyes saw, as soon as Sir Richard had relit the candle by his bed.
Sir Richard laid aside the tinder-box, and glanced down at Mr Yarde. Jimmy’s vision was clearing; he was able to see that Sir Richard’s lips had curled into a somewhat contemptuous smile. He began gingerly to massage his throat, which felt badly bruised, and waited for Sir Richard to speak.
“I warned you that I was a shockingly light sleeper,” Sir Richard said.
Jimmy cast him a malevolent look, but made no answer.
“Get up!” Sir Richard said. “You may sit on that chair, Mr Yarde, for we are going to enjoy a heart-to-heart talk.”
Jimmy picked himself up. A glance in the direction of the window was enough to convince him that he would be intercepted before he could reach it. He sat down and drew the back of his hand across his brow.
“Don’t let us misunderstand one another!” Sir Richard said. “You came to find a certain diamond necklace, which you hid in my nephew’s coat this morning. There are just three things I can do with you. I can deliver you up to the Law.”
“You can’t prove I come to fork the necklace, guv’nor,” Jimmy muttered.
“You think not? We may yet see. Failing the Bow Street Runner—but I feel he would be happy to take you into custody—I fancy a gentleman of the name of Trimble—ah, Horace Trimble, if my memory serves!—would be even happier to relieve me of you.”
The mention of this name brought an expression of great uneasiness into Jimmy’s sharp countenance. “I don’t know him! Never heard of any such cove!”
“Oh yes, I think you have!” said Sir Richard.
“I ain’t done you any harm, guv’nor, nor intended any! I’ll cap downright—”
“You needn’t: I believe you.”
Jimmy’s spirits began to lift. “Dang me if I didn’t say you was a leery cove! You wouldn’t be hard on a cull!”
“That depends on the—er—cull. Which brings me, Mr Yarde, to the third course I might—I say, might, Mr Yarde—pursue. I can let you go.”
Jimmy gasped, swallowed, and muttered hoarsely: “Spoke like the gentry-cove you are, guv’nor!”
“Tell me what I want to know, and I will let you go,” said Sir Richard.
A wary look came into Jimmy’s eyes. “Spilt, eh? Lord bless you, there ain’t anything to tell you!”
“It will perhaps make it easier for you if I inform you that I am already aware that you have been working in —somewhat uneasy partnership—with Mr Horace Trimble.”
“Cap’n Trimble,” corrected Jimmy.
“I should doubt it. He, I take it, is the—er—flash cull—whom you referred to last night.”
“I don’t deny it.”
“Furthermore,” said Sir Richard, “the pair of you were working for a young gentleman with a pronounced stammer. Ah, for a Mr Brandon, to be precise.”
Jimmy had changed colour. “Stow your whids and plant ’em!” he growled. “You’re too leery for me, see? Damme if I know what your lay is!”
“That need not concern you. Think it over, Mr Yarde! Will you be handed over to Captain Trimble, or do you choose to go as you came, through that window?”
Jimmy sat for a moment, still gently rubbing his throat, and looking sideways at Sir Richard. “Damn all flash culls!” he said at last. “I’ll whiddle the whole scrap. I ain’t a bridle-cull, see? What
“I am aware. Go on!”
“There’s an old gentry-mort going to Bath, see? Lord love you, she was his own mother! Now, that’s what I don’t hold with, but it ain’t none of my business. Me and Cap’n Trimble holds up the chaise by Calne, or thereabouts. The necklace is in a hiding-place behind one of the squabs—ah, and rum squabs they was, all made out of red silk!”
“Mr Brandon knew of this hiding-place, and told you?”
“Lord love you, he made naught of that, guv’nor! We was to snaffle the necklace, and pike on the bean, see?”
“Not entirely.”
“Lope off as fast we could. Now, I don’t hold with violence, any gait, nor that stammering young chub neither. But Cap’n Trimble looses off his pops, and one of the outriders gets it in the wing. While the Cap’n’s a-covering the coves with his pops, I dubs the jigger—opens the door—and finds a couple of gentry-morts, hollering fit to rouse the countryside. I don’t take nothing but the necklace, see? I’m a peevy cove, and this ain’t my lay. I don’t like it. We pikes, and Cap’n Trimble he pushes his pop into my belly, and says to hand over the necklace. Well, I does so. I’m a peevy cove. I don’t hold with violence. Now, the lay is that we take them sparklers to that flash young boman prig, which is taking cover down here, with a regular green ’un, which he gets to know at Oxford. All’s Bob, then! But I’m leery, see? Seems to me I’m working with a flash file, and if he makes off with the sparklers, which I suspicion he will, my young chub don’t tip me my earnest. I forks the cove. Bristol’s the place for me, I thinks, and I gets on to the werry same rattler which you and your nevvy’s a-riding in. When that harman from Bow Street comes along, I thinks there’s a fastner out for me, and I tips the cole to Adam Tiler, as you might say.”
“You placed the necklace in my nephew’s pocket?”
“That’s it, guv’nor. No harman won’t suspicion a young shaver like him, I thinks. But you and he lopes off unbeknownst, and I comes to this place. Oh, I knew you was a peevy cull! So I touts the case, see?”
“No.”
“Runs my winkers over the house,” said Jimmy impatiently. “I see your young shaver at this werry window—I should have remembered that you was a peevy cove, guv’nor.”
“You should indeed. However, you have told me what I wish to know, and you are now at liberty to—er—pike on the bean.”
