The Adventures of Romney Pringle/The Paste Diamonds
V.
THE PASTE DIAMONDS
MR. ROMNEY PRINGLE was hunting through a portfolio of engravings in the afternoon.
One of the old prints which lightened the warm distemper of the sitting-room walls had just been summarily displaced. The cord breaking, it had reached the floor a complete wreck, a flower-bowl overturned in the descent having poured its cascade across the broken glass to the utter ruin of the print beneath. A substitute was required, and finding a worthy successor in a 'Diogenes' of Salvator Rosa, engraved in laborious but beautiful line, Pringle was about to replace the portfolio when there came a knock at the outer door. Rising, he admitted a tall, slightly-stooping, grey-haired gentleman of spare habit, who seized his unresisting hand and shook it warmly.
"Why, surely you haven't forgotten me!" exclaimed the stranger, desisting as he observed a stony expression to gather over the face of his host. Pringle started, while his features relaxed into the winning smile which so ably seconded the magnetism of his address.
"What! Can it be Mr. Windrush?"
"Why, of course it is! But how stupid of me!—I ought to have remembered that you've only met me once before, and at that time I looked rather different from what I am now."
"Not so very different," was Pringle's tactful reply. "You certainly bore up manfully under a strain which would have crushed most people."
"Ah, that miserable Asylum! I shall never forget it, nor the way I was made to appear insane. And above all, I shall never forget the noble manner in which you worked for my release after you discovered the villainy of my brother and his accomplice."
"You have already thanked me beyond my deserts. Pray let us talk of something else. How kind of you to come and visit me!"
"Well, you've never come and seen me all this time, so I came to see if you were still alive!"
"You see my time is so much occupied with my work as a literary agent that my visits to any friends are necessarily angelic," and Pringle, with calm mendacity, waved his hands towards the empty bureau.
"Well, I've come now to ask your advice, and, if you can suggest it, your help."
"If you think my advice worth having, I shall be only too pleased to give it to you, but I'm afraid you rather over-rate my powers."
"Ah, I see you've all the modesty of true genius. But I won't waste time with compliments. Well now, a cousin of mine lives near me; her husband is head of one of the oldest families in our county, and I have always been on very affectionate terms with her. Well, I'm sorry to say she has lately got in with a rather fast set, and being in pressing need of about a thousand pounds, she took a very fine diamond star, which is a sort of family heirloom, to some West-end jewellers who do that sort of thing, and got an advance, and as she didn't want her husband to know anything about it, she got these people to make her a facsimile in paste. About a week or two ago, she found the central stone had dropped out. The jewellers said they couldn't replace it in under a week, and she was at her wit's end, for they were entertaining a party of friends, and her husband would have wondered if she had never worn the diamonds all the time. Well, the jewellers suggested letting her have the real star, on hire for fifty pounds, until the sham stone was replaced, but they insisted on her giving them a cheque for the thousand they had lent her with interest, they agreeing to hold it over and return it to her when she returned the real diamonds. So she wore the star once or twice for the look of the thing, and then put it away. After the party broke up yesterday, she found to her horror the jewel-case was empty. She says it had been opened at the hinges."
"Ah, yes! By driving out the pins."
"That's it, Well, she was in despair. The jewellers would present the cheque if she didn't return the star; as she hadn't got more than a hundred or two at the bank, it would be dishonoured; and then her husband would learn the whole affair in the most disagreeable manner possible. Yesterday, she drove over to my place, and told me all, so I offered to lend her the money, and I came to town this morning and got her cheque back together with the paste. But we want to recover the real stones, and as she dreads having anything to do with the police—as you may suppose—I have come to ask your advice."
"Were there any traces of a burglary?"
"So far as I understand her, none. But it is possible that an expert might have found them."
"It seems to me," observed Pringle, "that the theft of an article so easily traceable, and so difficult to dispose of, could only be the work of a very stupid amateur, or of a very clever thief. Since the affair was managed so neatly, we are forced back on the latter alternative. Now an experienced jewel-thief would soon dispose of the stones, so it's doubtful if you'll ever see them again in the same form."
"Would you like to see the facsimile?"
"Of all things! Have you got it here?"
For reply Windrush drew a black leather case from his pocket, and opening it, displayed on a bed of blue velvet, what appeared to be a diamond star of such dazzling lustre as to deceive any eye but that of an expert.
"Very nice indeed," commented Pringle. "Evidently the work of a first-class artist. Would you have any objection to leaving it with me?"
"How long will you want to keep it?"
"It's rather how long can your cousin spare it?"
"Well, her husband is going for two or three weeks' yachting, so she can safely spare it for that time."
"That will do nicely," said Pringle, adding as the other rose to go, "Are you returning to Norfolk to-day?"
"No. I was afraid I mightn't catch you in, so I took a bed at the Great Eastern. Besides, it's gone six now, so I should have had to stop over-night in any case."
"If you are willing I should like to accompany you so far. By the bye, I was going to speak to you on rather a painful subject. Your brother Percy—have you heard anything of him lately?"
"As you say, it is a painful subject! In return for nothing but kindness from me, to not only make me appear insane, but to nearly drive me so in reality! You know, Mr. Pringle, no one better, what I suffered. I don't think I'm a vindictive man, but I feel that I cannot, at all events at present, hold any communication with him. My cousin saw him recently. Indeed, I understand he was staying with them last week, for although people know we are not on speaking terms, I think I have managed to keep the real reason a secret."
"No, there is nothing to be gained by washing your dirty linen in public."
"Do you think," Windrush said, as they stood an hour later in the vestibule of the hotel, "do you think it would help you to run down and take a look at the place? I am sure my cousin would be pleased to see you, and I need hardly say how delighted I shall be to put you up."
"Not just at present, thank you," declined Pringle; "I should like to do so eventually, and whilst I think of it I'll just go and get a time-table. Good-bye for the present. You mustn't be disappointed if you don't hear anything of me for a week or so."
Descending the sloping approach, Pringle entered the station. It was nearing half-past seven, and there was much bustle antecedent to the starting of the eight o'clock boat express, Having purchased his time-table, Pringle was about to return, when a hubbub arose by the booking-office, and he lingered a moment to listen.
"I tell yer, the cab stopped at my pitch! The eight-continental, ain't it, sir?"
"The gent 'anded the bag to me, didn't yer, sir? An' yer sez second class fur 'Arridge."
Two porters, very much in the attitude of the mothers in the judgment of Solomon as usually depicted, had seized the opposite ends of a Gladstone bag, whilst the owner, a burly, somewhat bloated individual, stood grasping a hold-all, in detached amusement at the scene. The contest merged into an East-End picturesqueness of abuse, when one of the men, espying an elderly lady possessed of a large quantity of luggage as yet unappropriated, abruptly raised the siege, and dropping the bag, went in pursuit of this more desirable client.
The appearance of the traveller was commonplace enough, but, as he moved off under the wing of the victorious porter, Pringle felt certain he had seen him before, and not so very long ago either. Staring absently after the man, he turned over in his mind all the likely and most of the unlikely places where they could have met, till a spasm of reminiscence showed him a luxuriously-furnished set of chambers. It was 256 Piccadilly of course, and equally of course the traveller was Percy Windrush! Harwich by the eight o'clock boat express! Pringle found himself wondering where on earth Percy could be going to. His objective could only be Rotterdam, but that was not a pleasure resort, while the slenderness of his luggage was incompatible with a more extended continental tour. He felt a sense of irritation against Percy for worrying him with such a problem. He turned impatiently to go, but suddenly stopped as a chance remark of John Windrush blazed vividly in his recollection—"My cousin saw him recently... he was staying with them last week."
Pringle sat down to reflect. This was the situation, it seemed. Percy's failure to keep his brother in an asylum, and their consequent rupture had deprived him of an easy means of livelihood. He was, no doubt, hard put to it for money, and unlikely to stop at anything to obtain it. He would know the way about his cousin's house, he could choose his opportunity, while his relationship would shield him from any suspicion. What more likely than that he had taken the diamonds, and if so, was now on his way to dispose of them? Pringle looked up the time-table. The boat was due at Rotterdam the next morning. At the very outside, to follow Percy to the Continent and back would not take more than three days, and he decided that the clue was worth following up. A bell clanged furiously. There was no time to lose, and the question of luggage had to be considered! Just by the booking-office stood one of those convenient toilet-establishments where hair-cutting and shaving are combined with the provision of travellers' requisites. Entering, he made a hurried investment, and emerged the richer by a bag packed with toilet and sleeping necessaries. Then, booking a through-passage to Rotterdam, he took his seat in the train a few seconds before it started. On arriving at Parkestone Quay he just obtained a glimpse of Percy Windrush hurrying, the first of all, on board the packet, where he promptly disappeared below, and as the night had set in dark and stormy, Pringle followed his example and was soon fast asleep.
The North Sea was in anything but a propitious mood when he awoke. The 'Hook of Holland' route was not then in existence, and the crossing which, as a general rule, averaged twelve hours, now bid fair to lengthen into sixteen. It was a prolonged agony to the majority of the passengers, to whom the arrival and passing of the breakfast-hour had proved an event of no interest. Few but Pringle had dared to brave the wet and draughty horrors of the upper-deck, and it was only as the steamer entered the Maas, and Rotterdam with its wilderness of trees and masts appeared in sight, that a limp and draggled procession emerged from the saloon. As the deck filled, Pringle ceased his promenade and drew towards the rearmost rank. Nosing her way through the maze of shipping, the steamer slowly passed to her berth beside the Hull and Dunkirk packets, and was neatly moored alongside the tree-planted Boompjes where the shadows were already beginning to lengthen. The formalities of the Customs had been completed in the stream, and the crowd rapidly thinned and dispersed as the passengers streamed up the gangways on to grateful terra firma.
Percy was almost the last to appear, having remained below throughout; Pringle remembered that he was said to be a seasoned sailor, so he could hardly have stopped there on account of the prevalent malady. Recalling the historical precedent of Nelson only to dismiss it as inapplicable, he felt sure that Percy's reason for enduring such undoubted personal inconvenience could only have arisen from a desire to escape observation, and was more than ever determined not to lose sight of him. Pringle had little fear of being recognized himself. Although he had had no opportunity of removing his official port-wine mark as the putative literary agent, Percy would scarcely recognize, even if he remembered, the whiskered asylum-attendant in the slim, clean-shaven figure in the lounge-suit who followed him.
Resisting the siren importunities of the hotel touts, Pringle briskly strode across the elm-planted quay. He found Percy had already crossed the Scheepmaker's Haven by one of the innumerable swing-bridges of the city, and was upon another which spanned the Wijn Haven. Pringle followed, and Percy took the direction of the central railway-station. Beyond the Bourse he turned to the left towards the fish-market, and crossing the Zoete Bridge, passed by the Boijmann Gallery, and struck up Zand Straat. Block succeeded block along the street, and Pringle began to wonder when the promenade would end, when suddenly Percy dived down a turning on the right labelled Spoorweg Straat, which led towards the Delfsche Canal, and ascended the steps of a modest-looking house displaying the legend "Hotel Rotterdamsche."
As Pringle withdrew for a space into Zand Straat, he noted that his pursuit had landed him in anything but a select quarter of the town. The region of the best hotels and public buildings had been long left behind, and although there were plenty of large houses visible, their aspect was distinctly second-rate. Having waited sufficiently long to avoid any appearance of espionage, Pringle turned back into Spoorweg Straat, and entering the hotel, inquired for accommodation in his native tongue the real lingua franca of the civilized world. For reply the clerk, whose knowledge of English appeared limited, handed him a dirty-looking visitors'-book. Pringle took up a pen, and glancing at the name last written, read in characters whose faintness indicated recent blotting, "Philip Winter." Percy had retained his own initials, although for some occult reason he had changed his name. Pringle was studying the signature, when the clerk laid a grimy, impatient finger on the first vacant line, and thus recalled to his surroundings, Pringle boldly signed "John M'Hugh," as a name well in keeping with the commercial atmosphere in which he found himself.
"Will you de straat or de vest overlook?" inquired the clerk; adding as a possible inducement, "Best for gentlemen de vest."
Realizing that he was asked to choose between an outlook to the street or the canal, Pringle selected the gentlemanly alternative, and hastened to reply, "The water—vest, vest!"
Following a porter with his bag, he was ushered up to a room on the first floor, at the end of a long and rather dark passage. The window opened on a broad balcony which ran the width of the house, and afforded a picturesque glimpse of the canal. Rather was it a basin, terminating one of the capillary offshoots of the main stream. It was bordered as usual with fine trees, whose branches seemed to form part and parcel of the spars of the craft which thronged the water, except towards the middle, where a fair-way, covered with the ubiquitous green scum, resembled a flat meadow. Pringle stepped to the window, which stood ajar, and leaned over the rail of the balcony. Gazing abstractedly at the shipping, the polished wood-work glistening in the sun which flashed again from innumerable points of bright metal, the calm unbroken by any sight or sound of task, he allowed the restful influence of the scene to steal lazily over him. But the sudden closing of a door near by, and a few words spoken in English broke the spell, and once again focused his thoughts on Percy Windrush.
"So here you are at last! I thought you'd have been here before me." The voice sounded through the next window, which must have been open, although its wooden sun-blind stood half across the balcony and effectually concealed it.
"Ma tear Mishdare Winder! It is a long, long way to come. I am poor man, and de hotel egspenche is great."
"Yes, I know all about that. I know you're the richest poor man in Amsterdam. Have you taken a room here?"
"Noomber eighteen—joost obbosite."
"Well, never mind the number so long as you are here. Have you brought any money with you?"
"A liddle."
"That's all right then. Is it cash as I told you?"
"Yes, goot bank English notes."
"You old villain! Every one of them 'known and stopped', I suppose, that you've bought at eighty per cent. discount, and expect me to take at face-value." And the speaker gave an audible snort of disgust.
"We are all Hebrew and gendlemen in de stone trade," was the dignified response.
"So I've heard," Windrush observed acidly. "Well, suppose we come to business. I didn't invite you here to exchange compliments."
There was a pause in the conversation, and Pringle stepped gingerly towards the sun-blind. He did not advance too closely, but contented himself with an occasional glance between the hinges, which afforded him a very fair view of the room. Windrush was partially undressing, so as to remove a wash-leather packet which hung next his skin by a cord round the neck. Ripping it open with a pocketknife, he removed several layers of tissue-paper, and finally a mass of cotton wool surrounding a diamond-star. As he held it up towards his companion, Pringle involuntarily grasped his own pocket to satisfy himself of the safety of the facsimile, so accurately did the two match in every particular. As for the Jew, from his gloating gaze, and the fondling gesture with which he handled it, the sight was one to rouse his utmost cupidity.
At length, as the other made no movement, but continued to stare, Percy broke the silence.
"Now then, Israels, what do you say?"
"Dey are very fair stones."
"Fair! 'Fair', do you call them? You don't see such stones as they are every day, nor yet every year!"
"Dey are goot. I do not call dem de best."
"Look here, my Amsterdammer! It's not what you call them, but what I know they are. D'ye see?"
"What do you know they are?"
"I know they're worth every penny of three thousand pounds!"
Israels dropped the star on the table as if it had burnt him.
"Dree dousand!" he echoed, with an expression of amazement as his huckstering instincts asserted themselves.
"That's what I said."
"Dree 'underd you mean for surely!"
"I said three thousand and I meant it, and well you know it!"
"You are joking, Misdare Winder, to ask dat."
"You old fool! I didn't say I asked three thousand for them, did I?" growled Percy.
"Den what do you ask?" inquired Israels feebly.
"Fifteen hundred," said Percy with decision.
"To rob me you 'ave called me 'ere!" shrilly cried the Jew.
"Not much!" retorted Percy contemptuously, "Do you think if I wanted to do that I should have chosen this place?"
The Jew made no reply, but glanced uneasily through the window at the canal beyond.
"Look here, now," continued Percy. "I don't want any more humbug. You take 'em, or, by crumbs! I'll get some one who will."
"It cannot be done," said the Jew simply.
"Fifteen hundred's the figure," repeated Percy, as he leaned forward and clutched the star.
"I 'ave not so much," protested the Jew.
"All right, I'll find some one else who has," said Percy deliberately, and he commenced to wrap the jewel up again.
"Say one dousand," pleaded Israels.
Percy rose and pointed to the door.
"See," continued the Jew coaxingly, "I give you twelve 'underd."
"Fifteen," replied Percy firmly.
"Say twelve!" and Israels produced a wallet and flourished a handful of crisp paper in Percy's face.
"No! I tell you for the last time Fifteen! And little enough too!" Percy clenched his ultimatum with a resounding slap on the table.
Loudly protesting that he was a ruined man, Israels reluctantly counted out the notes in front of the inexorable Percy, who affected to be engaged in examining the diamonds, which he held in full view of the other. When the notes lay, a rustling heap, upon the table, Percy pushed the star across to the Jew, who pounced upon it, and after another admiring glance, bundled it into a handbag which he jealously locked.
Percy, with a condescending air, counted the notes over again, whistling carelessly the while, then turning to Israels—
"Well, old stick-in-the-mud!" he said graciously, "I'll stand you a dinner. Yes, by Jingo! at the Weimar! There's nothing eatable to be got here. And then we'll go to the Diergaarden—it's slow, but it's the only thing to do in this cursed place."
"You are doo kind, Misdare Winder," sniggered the diamond-merchant, as he retired with the precious handbag.
The clock was nearing five when Pringle descended to the frowsy dining-room and reserved a seat for the table d'hôte. Then lighting a cigarette, he strolled out, and was soon absorbed in an inspection of the shop-windows of Zand Straat. He had not left the hotel very far behind, when Percy Windrush passed him with a jaunty swagger, which kept Israels, delighted with the prospect of a meal at another man's expense, at a perpetual trot. Still interested in the merchandise displayed in the shops, Pringle contrived to keep the pair in sight until they were safely housed in the Weimar, about the only passable restaurant in all Rotterdam; then boarding a tramcar, he returned northwards, and arriving at the hotel towards six, was assured by the evidence of most of his senses of the actuality of the table d'hôte.
Practically the whole hotel was dining, and the upper floors were quite deserted when he ascended to his room. The vault-like passage with the closing day was darker than ever, and the doorways of all the rooms were sunk in obscurity. Not a sound was to be heard except the distant murmur arising from the ground-floor, and after waiting a few minutes he tried the door of No. 18. As he expected, it was locked, and returning to his own room he took out the key and examined it. The simplicity of the wards augured little complication in any of the locks, and taking a bunch of skeleton keys from his vest-pocket, he selected the most likely-looking one. Once more he attacked No. 18, and after a little manipulation, the skeleton-key shot the bolt, and he entered. Carefully closing the door behind him, and re-locking it, he looked about for the handbag. It was nowhere to be seen! Israels had certainly not taken it out with him. Could he have given it into the custody of the landlord? But the Jew's suspicious nature had negatived such an obvious precaution, and a very short search disclosed it under the far corner of the bed. As in most bags, especially when of continental make, the lock presented little difficulty to an expert, and a few minutes' work enabled Pringle to open it, and, having swathed the paste star in the solicitous wrappings of the genuine one, to pocket the latter leaving the paste in its stead. Then he locked the bag and returned it to its hiding-place.
He listened. All was quiet. Unlocking the door, he carefully closed and locked it again, then walked down-stairs without encountering a soul.
Dinner over, he endeavoured to amuse himself with a stroll through the town, but the intolerable dulness of the place drove him back to bed by ten o'clock, and notwithstanding the warmth of the night he soon dropped off to sleep. It seemed to him that he had slept for hours when he awoke with a start as the bed vibrated to a violent concussion. As he sat up his first thought was of the jewel-case. It was safe under the pillow where he had placed it on retiring. The moon had clouded, but there was sufficient light entering by the window for him to see that nothing was amiss in the room. The great clock of St. Lawrence struck one. Another concussion: then a confused bumping and jarring sounded somewhere near. He sprang out of bed, and opening the window looked on to the balcony. The sun-blinds were now hooked back, and he was just in time to see the windows of the next room start and burst open, as the flimsy fastenings gave way under the impact of a heavy weight.
Creeping to the window, Pringle looked in, and dimly discerned the creator of the disturbance in Percy Windrush, who, after a futile attempt to remove his boots, had reeled against the window, and now lay, fully dressed, snoring in a drunken stupor on the floor. Pringle waited and listened, But these vagaries had failed to rouse attention elsewhere, and the nasal solo was undisturbed. Percy had rolled inward as he fell, and Pringle easily effected an entrance. He had only had a single opportunity of closely inspecting Percy before, and that was when the fortunes of the latter were at their zenith; times had changed since then! The younger Windrush was by no means an attractive object as he lay. His features, no doubt pleasing enough at one time, were bloated and drink-sodden, his limbs were flabby, and his waist, a region difficult to define, perilously approached the sixties. His linen was dirty, his clothes of loud cut, and with his swaggering air, proclaimed him the dissipated blackguard he was. Such then was the man against whom he had already pitted his wits and come off victoriously. Like most clever rogues, Percy had the wit to conceive an ingenious scheme, but at the psychological moment, his luck or his courage (which in such cases may be held to be synonymous) had deserted him.
The quarter struck from St. Lawrence. It was dangerous to remain long. Percy's slumbers were not so comatose that he could not be roused, and even as the clock struck, he turned over and muttered the refrain of some ditty—an item probably from the evening's entertainment.
A thought exploded in Pringle's mind. What a brilliant opportunity! It was now or not at all! He hurriedly glanced around. Percy's 'hold-all' lay, collapsed and empty, in a corner where it had been tossed after unpacking. On a table near it stood the small Gladstone. Pringle gently pressed the lock and peeped in. A travelling-flask (empty), a change of linen (Percy had some claims to conventional decency), a panacea against headaches, a pipe, a golf-cap, pyjamas, a Baedeker, a pair of slippers—and that was all!
Strange that they were nowhere visible. But the bag would hardly have been unlocked in that case. Could Percy have gone one better than the Jew, and have handed them to the landlord for safe keeping? One more look round. Pringle tried the drawers in the rickety dressing-table. They were empty of all but dust and fluff; of course no one but a lunatic would have put them there—or a drunkard! Stay, what about his pockets? A wallet would be too large to be concealed very easily. He stepped towards the sleeper. The breath roared stertorously through his nostrils; his lips had ceased to move; and the uncomfortable position in which he lay, with one arm doubled under him, showed his complete and happy oblivion to externals. Pringle tenderly felt the ponderous carcass. The light was dim, and touch was about the only sense available. The coat gaped widely; there was something bulky inside. He cautiously withdrew a bundle from the breast-pocket. The sensation on pressing it, even more than a glance in the faint light, revealed it a letter-case stuffed to bursting with the bank-notes Mr. Israels had paid over that afternoon. A cloud slipped off the moon, and he counted them feverishly. One hundred and four tens, and twenty-three twenties. To seize them, and return the empty wallet to its owner's pocket was the work of a moment more. For the second time, and still unknown to Percy, had Pringle bested him; he might be forgiven the contemptuous smile with which he regarded his prostrate adversary. The snores still reverberated through the darkness, as he strode over the mountainous body, and out on to the balcony. How to close the windows was the difficulty, but after a little persuasion he succeeded in inducing the crazy bolt to tentatively engage the slot, and so conceal his retreat.
Pringle had slept long and soundly, and the morning had nearly "risen on mid-noon" when his slumbers were rudely disturbed by a torrent of abuse.
"You are a tief! A robber!! A rogue-villain!!!" The voice shrilled in crescendo as fresh terms of reproach in the English language crowded on the memory of the speaker.
As Pringle awoke, his head still dizzy with the profound and dreamless stupor which had crowned the stirring events of last night, he was in some doubt as to the origin of the uproar; but as memory returned he realized that it must be due to his own achievements. It was from the next chamber that the sounds of discord arose, and setting his door ajar, the better to hear, he commenced a leisurely toilet to the accompaniment of an acrimonious duet.
"What d'you want to wake me up for with your infernal row?" growled a deep bass, in farcical contrast to the falsetto of its interlocutor.
"Gij hebt mij bezwendeld! Hets altemaal fopperij!! Ik zal gij voor den vrederegter doen verschijnen!!!" ("You have swindled me! These are rubbish!! I will have you brought before the justice of the peace!!!") The words culminated in a scream, and were followed by a noise as if the speaker were executing a kind of double-shuffle round the room in his agitation.
"What are you talking about, you old fool? What is it you want?"
"De ster diamant!"
"Talk English, will you? Damn you!"
"De stones!—you haf swintled me! Where are de real ones?"
"Here, get out of the room! You're drunk!"
"Drunk! Gij hebt mij bezwendeld!"
"You're mad then!" roared the bass with a hail of expletives.
"You are a pig-dog!" returned the falsetto, and to judge from an intermittent bouncing on the floor, he resumed his saltatory exercise.
"Let me see the (adjective) thing." A pause. "Well, what's all the fuss about?"
"Dey are paste! Give back my money."
"Paste be damned!"
"My money! I will call de police!"
"Here, take your money! I'll sell 'em to a man who knows good stuff when he sees it. Why, where the—" Another pause. Then suddenly the bass thundered, "You infernal Jew, you've robbed me!"
"You 'ave robbed me! My money or de police!"
"You dirty little swab, you know you've got it!"
"I 'ave it not!"
"Where are the notes then? Didn't you make me drunk last night at the Weimar? You thought you'd get the stones for nothing, eh? But I've got 'em, and by Jingo I'll stick to them!"
"Dey are paste."
"They're good enough for me. You can keep the notes you stole last night."
"It is you are a tief!"
"You stinking old hound, I'll wring your infernal neck!"
"Politie—Moord! Moord! Poltcie!" was gasped jerkily as from a body in a state of violent succussion.
Pringle walked calmly down-stairs and settled his bill.
"I rather think two gentlemen are fighting a duel up-stairs," he remarked in an apprehensive tone.
As he sallied out on his way to the quay, a series of loud shrieks, followed by the crashing of glass and other sounds of destruction, summoned the scandalized proprietor and a posse of waiters to the scene of strife.