But that was sentiment. Sentiment was not to
be expected of the Sergeant, and disgusting things were.
Then he suddenly recalled Alec Naylor's story of the two men, one tall
and slight, one short and stumpy, who had reconnoitered Tower Cottage.
The Sergeant had an accomplice, no doubt. He listened again. He heard the
scrape of metal on metal, as when a man gathers up coins in his hand out
of a heap. Yet he stood where he was, smoking still. Thoughts were
passing rapidly through his brain, and they brought a smile to his lips.
Let them take it! Why not? It was no care to him now! Doctor Mary had to
tell the truth about it, and so, consequently, had he himself. It
belonged to the Radbolts. Oh, damn the Radbolts! He would have risked his
life for it if the old man had lived, but he wasn't going to risk his
life for the Radbolts. Let the rascals get off with the stuff, or as much
as they could carry! He was all right. Doctor Mary could testify that he
hadn't taken it. Let them carry off the infernal stuff! Incidentally he
would be well rid of the Sergeant, and free from any of his
importunities, from whines and threats alike; it was not an unimportant,
if a minor, consideration.
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