Don't you think you'd better depart--by the back door--and
go home? And if you're not out of Inkston for good and all by ten o'clock
in the morning, and if you ever show yourself there again, look out for
squalls. What you've got out of this business I don't know. You can keep
it--and I'll give you a parting present myself as well."
"I knows a thing or two--" the Sergeant began, but he saw a look that
he had seen only once or twice before on Beaumaroy's face; on each
occasion it had been followed by the death of the enemy whose act had
elicited it.
"Oh, try that game, just try it!" Beaumaroy muttered. "Just give me that
excuse!" He advanced to the Sergeant, who fell suddenly on his knees.
"Don't make a noise, you hound, or I'll silence you for good and all--I'd
do it for twopence!" He took hold of the Sergeant's coat-collar, jerked
him on to his legs, and propelled him to the kitchen and through it to
the back door. Opening it, he dispatched the Sergeant through the doorway
with an accurate and vigorous kick. He fell, and lay sprawling on the
ground for a second, then gathered himself up and ran hastily over the
heath, soon disappearing in the darkness.
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