On'y
don't you go for to shoot, 'cos we 'int awmed, s'help me Gord!"
"Ah, you're a knowin' one," said Rosenthall, fingering his
triggers. "But you've struck a knowin'er."
"Ho, yuss, we know all abaht thet! Set a thief to ketch a
thief--ho, yuss."
My eyes had torn themselves from the round black muzzles, from
the accursed diamonds that had been our snare, the pasty pig-face
of the over-fed pugilist, and the flaming cheeks and hook nose of
Rosenthall himself. I was looking beyond them at the doorway
filled with quivering silk and plush, black faces, white
eyeballs, woolly pates. But a sudden silence recalled my
attention to the millionaire. And only his nose retained its
color.
"What d'ye mean?" he whispered with a hoarse oath. "Spit it out,
or, by Christmas, I'll drill you!"
"Whort price thet brikewater?" drawled Raffles coolly.
"Eh?"
Rosenthall's revolvers were describing widening orbits.
"Whort price thet brikewater--old _I.D.B._?"
"Where in hell did you get hold o' that ?" asked Rosenthall, with
a rattle in his thick neck, meant for mirth.
"You may well arst," says Raffles. "It's all over the plice
w'ere _I_ come from."
"Who can have spread such rot?"
"I dunno," says Raffles; "arst the gen'leman on yer left; p'r'aps
'E knows."
The gentleman on his left had turned livid with emotion.
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