"Who was he?" Murdoch interposed.
Mr. Briarley fell back a pace, perspiring profusely, and dabbing at his forehead with his cap.
"He—he wur a friend o' moine," he stammered,—"a friend o' moine as has getten a way o' gettin' hissen i' trouble, an' he ses, 'I'll tell him to look out.'"
"Tell him from me," said Murdoch, "that I am not afraid of anything that may happen."
It was a rash speech, but was not so defiant as it sounded. His only feeling was one of cold carelessness. He wanted to get free and go away and end his night in his silent room at home. But Mr. Briarley kept up with him, edging toward him apologetically as he walked.
"Yo're set agen th' chap fur bein' a foo'," he persisted, breathlessly, "an' I dunnot blame yo'. He's set agen hissen. He's a misforchnit chap as is all us i' trouble. It's set heavy on him, an' ses he, 'I'll tell him to look out.'"
At a turn into a by-lane he stopped.
"I'll go this road," he said, "an' I'll tell him as I've done it."
