Bundercombe was more than ready.
Intervention on my part was quite unnecessary. Mr. Bundercombe's left arm
shot out like a piston-rod and the unfortunate victim of his blow remained
on the carpet, with his hand to his cheek.
"Quite in order, of course," Mr. Bundercombe remarked, "but absolutely
useless. Boxing was my only sport when I was a young man, to say nothing
of my remarkably athletic young companion. It won't do, Rodwell! You'd
better hand over the jewels. Give them to Miss Blanche and she'll hand
them to me. They're in a morocco case, I think, in your trousers pocket."
Rodwell produced them sullenly.
"It's your fault, you miserable little fool!" he muttered to Blanche. "I
ought to have known better than to have let you into the thing. Fancy
taking him for a mug!"
Mr. Bundercombe smiled a pleased smile.
"Come, come!" he said. "Things are not so bad. You might have been
caught!"
"Aren't you going to give information?" Rodwell asked quickly.
"Not a thought of it!" Mr. Bundercombe assured him, catching the case
Rodwell threw toward him. "I want, so far as possible, to see both sides
happy. Here, Paul; put these in your pocket!" he added, turning to me. "If
you take my advice, Rodwell," he concluded, "you'll stay where you are
until I return.
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