midnight silence.

Durfy's heart beat fast, for he had a heart to beat on occasions like
this. A hundred chances on which he had never calculated suddenly
presented themselves. What if some one might be peering out into the
night from one of the black windows of those silent houses? Suppose
some motionless policeman under the shadow of a wall were near enough to
see and hear! Suppose the cool night air had already done its work and
sobered the wayfarer enough to render him obstinate or even dangerous!
He seemed to walk more steadily. If anything was to be done, every
moment was of consequence. And the risk?

The vision of that pocket-book and the crisp white notes flashed across
Durfy's memory by way of answer.

Yes, to Durfy, the outcast, the dupe, the baffled adventurer, the risk
was worth running.

He quickened his step and opened the blade of the penknife in his pocket
as he did so. Not that he meant to use it, but in case--

Faugh! the fellow was staggering as helplessly as ever! He never even
heeded the pursuing steps, but reeled on, muttering to himself, now
close to the palings, now on the kerb, his hat back on his head and the
cigar between his lips not even alight.

Durfy crept silently behind, and with a sudden dash locked one arm
tightly round his victim's neck, while with the other he made a swift
dive at the pocket where lay the coveted treasure.

It was all so quickly done that before Blandford could exclaim or even
gasp the pocket-book was in the thief's hands. Then as the arm round
his neck was relaxed, he faced round, terribly sobered, and made a wild
spring at his assailant.

"Thief!" he shouted, making the quiet square ring and ring again with
the echo of that word.

His hand was upon Durfy's collar, so fiercely that nothing but a hand-
to-hand struggle could release its grip; unless--

Durfy's hand dropped to his pocket. There was a flash and a scream, and
next moment Blandford was clinging, groaning, to the railings of the
square, while Durfy's footsteps died away in the gloomy mazes of a
network of back streets.

When Pillans got home to his lodgings that night he found his comrade in
bed with a severe wound in the shoulder, unable to give any account of
himself but that he had been first garotted, then robbed, and finally
stabbed, on his way home from the Shades.

Mr Durfy did not present himself at Mr Medlock's hotel at the
appointed hour next morning.

Nor, although