He turned back, lest in passing they recognized him, and went down Villiers Street, mounting the stairs to Hungerford Bridge. It was not the twenty notes in his pocket, a compact, cosy little roll, that made his heart and his step lighter; he had caught something of the girl’s spirit, had been imbued with a little of her courage and sanity.
Leslie Maughan puzzled him. She was more than pretty; there was in her face a spirituality which he had not detected in the face of any woman of his acquaintance or knowledge. He realized with a start that he had always disliked clever women. He liked them soft and feminine, and, if the truth be told, a little silly. But he liked this capable and pretty young woman.
Leslie Maughan had just enough of the official quality to keep him at a distance, and yet she was genuinely friendly, as friendly as a sensible elder sister might be, though in truth she must be years younger than he. Sometimes he felt a very old man—Leslie Maughan had made him feel like a child.
He was over the middle of the river now, and there was revealed to him the pageantry of the Embankment, with its lights reflected in the dark waters of the Thames; a great Scotsman in lights ornamented a tower on the south side. He felt himself responding to the glow and colour of it. And then, for no reason at all, he had an uncomfortable feeling that he could not trace, but instinctively he looked back. There were several people crossing with him, but immediately behind him, not half a dozen yards away, were three little men who moved shoulder to shoulder. They had the curious high-stepping walk which he had seen in Orientals; a sort of modified prance. They were not speaking to one another, as friends might who were walking home together, and, curiously enough, it was their silence which made him uneasy. Five years in a penal establishment had not been a good nerve cure for a man of Peter Dawlish’s temperament.
He ran down the steps and found himself in a dim and gloomy street. From here was a shortcut to the York Road, near where his temperance hotel was situated. His way led him through a deserted street of tiny houses that was not quite a slum but was barely respectable. As he turned into the thoroughfare he glanced back and saw that the three little men were following. They moved noiselessly, as though they were wearing rubber shoes. Peter crossed the road and they followed, a little nearer to him.
He was wondering whether it would not be better to turn and face them till they had passed, and he had decided upon this action when something fell over his head. He raised his hand quickly to catch at the thin rope, but too late; the slipknot tightened about his throat, two muscular little figures leapt at him, and in another second he was lying on the ground, fighting for life, strangled, his head bursting, his hands clawing at the rope. And then consciousness left him. After an eternity he felt somebody lifting him up and propping him against a wall; a brilliant light shone on his face.
Peter put his hand to his throat; the rope had gone, but he could still feel the deep depression it had made upon his skin.
“What was the game?” said a gruff voice.
He blinked up, could distinguish a helmeted head—a policeman.
“How do you feel? Would you like me to get an ambulance? I can put you into the hospital in a minute.”
Shaking in every limb, Peter struggled to his feet.
“I’m all right,” he said unsteadily. “Who were they?”
The policeman shook his head.
“I don’t know. They passed me at the end of the street and I thought they looked queer. Little fellows with flat noses—more like monkeys than men. And then I saw them go for you and came after them. I think I just about saved your life, young fellow.”
“I think you did,” said Peter ruefully, as he felt at his scarred throat.
“Run! I never saw anybody run as fast as they did,” said the constable. “Did you have a row with them?”
“No; I never saw them before in my life,” said Peter.
“Humph!” The officer was looking at him dubiously. “Wonder who they was? They talked in some lingo I didn’t understand. I only caught one word, or maybe it’s two—orange pander or bander.”
“Orang blanga?” asked Peter quickly, and whistled.
“Know ’em?”
Peter shook his head.
“No, I don’t know them. I guess their nationality. Javanese.”
The officer was loth to leave him.
“Where are you going now?”
“I’m trying to find a lodging.”
He was still far from recovered, for when he took a step the street and the officer went round in a mad whirl, and but for the policeman’s arm he would have fallen.
“You’ll get yourself pinched for being drunk,” said the policeman humorously. “Lodgings? Now, where did I see a lodging?”
He switched on his light, walked slowly down the street, flashing the lamp upon the windows. Presently he stopped.
“Here you are,” he said.
Peter made a slow and cautious way to where the policeman was standing. The lantern was focused upon a little card in the window:
Lodgings for a Respectable Young Man.
“Will this do for you?”
Peter nodded, and the constable rapped gently on the door. He had to wait some time, but presently there was a heavy foot in the passage, and a woman’s voice asked hoarsely:
“Who is there?”
“It’s all right, missis,” said the custodian of the law. “I’m a policeman; there’s a gentleman here who wants a lodging.”
The door was unlocked and opened a few inches.
“I’ve got a room, yes; but it’s a bit late, ain’t it?”
The
