His eyes had a dark look of fear in them.
"They're after me," he said, huskily. "That was one of them. Excuse
me, miss."
Merritt darted away and flung himself into a passing cab. His face was
dark with passion; the big veins stood out on his forehead like cords.
"The cur," he snarled--"the mean cur! I'll be even with him yet. If I
can only catch the 4.48 at the Junction I'll be in London before them.
And I'll go down to Brighton, if I have to foot it all the way, and,
once I get there, look to yourself, Reginald Henson. A hundred pounds is
a good sum to go on with. I'll kill that cur--I'll choke the life out of
him. Cabby, if you get to the Junction by a quarter to five I'll give
you a quid."
"The quid's as good as mine, sir," cabby said, cheerfully. "Get
along, lass."
Meanwhile Chris had returned thoughtfully to the dog-cart, musing over
the last discovery. She felt quite satisfied with her afternoon's work.
Then a new idea struck her. She crossed over to the post-office and
dispatched a long telegram thus:--
"To David Steel, 15, Downend Terrace, Brighton.
"Go to Walen's and ascertain full description of the tentative customer
who suggested the firm should procure gun-metal cigar-case for him to
look at.
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