It did not
occur to him that his behaviour might strike a nervous stranger as
suspicious. All he aimed at was the swift removal of himself from
a spot infested by others of his species. He ran, and Mr
Pickering, having followed him with the eye of fear, went rather
shakily into the house, his brain whirling with professional
cracksmen and gas pipes and assaulted butlers, to relate his
adventure.
'A great, hulking, ruffianly sort of fellow glaring in at the
window,' said Mr Pickering. 'I shouted at him and he ran like a
rabbit.'
'Gee! Must have been one of the gang that's been working down
here,' said Roscoe Sherriff. 'There might be a quarter of a column
in that, properly worked, but I guess I'd better wait until he
actually does bust the place.'
'We must notify the police!'
'Notify the police, and have them butt in and stop the thing and
kill a good story!' There was honest amazement in the Press-agent's
voice. 'Let me tell you, it isn't so easy to get publicity
these days that you want to go out of your way to stop it!'
Mr Pickering was appalled. A dislike of this man, which had grown
less vivid since his scene with Claire, returned to him with
redoubled force.
'Why, we may all be murdered in our beds!' he cried.
'Front-page stuff!' said Roscoe Sherriff, with gleaming eyes.
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