The confederates had stolen back to their base of
operations--to where their car lay behind the trees. There, too, no
Sergeant and no sack! Neddy reached for his roomy flask, drank of it,
and with hoarse curses consigned the entire course of events, his
accomplices, even himself, to nethermost perdition. "That place
ain't--natural!" he ended in a gloomy conviction. "'Oo pinched that sack?
The Sergeant? Well--maybe it was, and maybe it wasn't." He finished the
flask to cure a recurrence of the shudders.
Mike prevailed with him so far that he consented--reluctantly--to be left
alone on the blasted heath, while his friend went back to reconnoiter.
Mike went, and presently returned; the car was still there, the tall
figure was still pacing up and down.
"And perhaps the other one's gone for the police!" Mike suggested
uneasily. "Guess we've lost the hand, Neddy! Best be moving, eh? It's no
go for to-night."
"Catch me trying the bloomin' place any other night!" grumbled Neddy.
"It's given me the 'orrors, and no mistake."
Mike--Mr. Percy Bennett, that erstwhile gentlemanly stranger--recognized
one of his failures.
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