"What sort of a game is this?" Rodwell muttered, though he was pale to the
lips. "Blanche----"
He turned toward her with sudden fierceness. She sat there, wringing her
hands.
"Mr. Bundercombe!" she exclaimed feebly. "Mr. Bundercombe!"
"So this is your silly old fool, is it?" Rodwell hissed. "This is the old
fool you could twist round your finger, who found the money for your
manicure parlor, and who was in love with you, eh? What are you, anyway?"
he added, turning furiously upon Mr. Bundercombe. "A cop? Is this why you
were trying to put up to me a few weeks ago?"
Mr. Bundercombe waved aside the accusation.
"Nothing of the sort!" he declared.
"Then what is it you want?" Rodwell demanded. "Is it a share of the swag
you're after?"
Mr. Bundercombe shook his head.
"I am afraid," he sighed, "there will not be any swag."
Rodwells face was the most vicious thing I had ever looked on; yet he kept
his head. Mr. Bundercombe and I were an impossible proposition to an
unarmed man.
"In the first place," Mr. Bundercombe said, "I must congratulate you most
heartily on your scheme. I saw your double bolt across the road and jump
into the car. Everyone's eyes were upon him. They never saw you slip round
into the passage.
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