Page:The Kimberly Fugitive.pdf/5

194 that Thomas, if it were he, had forgotten the main features of the route. But supposing Thomas to have been the cyclist, where were the diamonds? Surely, thought Pringle, he must have some with him. And at the thought of the treasure to which he had been so near his pulse quickened. Could Thomas have concealed it about his person? Hardly, in view of his possible capture. But what of the cycle? He had shown considerable solicitude for the machine—in fact, he had scarcely loosened his hold on it. And had not he, Romney Pringle, tested the possibilities of a cycle for concealing jewellery? Smiling at the recollection he sat down to his breakfast.

About nine o'clock Pringle started in search of his new acquaintance, but at the hotel he was met by a fresh difficulty—he knew no name by which to describe the stranger, and could only ask for "a gentleman with a bicycle."

"You may well say the gentleman with the bicycle," exclaimed the waiter, as he took Pringle's judicious tip. "That's what we all call him. Why, he wouldn't let us put it in the yard last night, but he stuck to it like cobbler's wax, and stood it in the passage, where he could see it all the time he was eating. An' would you believe it, sir?"—sinking his voice to a confidential whisper—"he actually took the machine up to his bedroom with him at night!"

Pringle having expressed his horror at this violation of decency, the waiter continued—

"Ah! and when the guv'nor heard of it and went up to speak to him about it, he'd locked the door and pretended not to hear. He said it was a valuable machine; but I've got a brother in the trade and I know something about machines myself, and I don't see it's anything out of the way."

"What name did he give?"

"Think it was Snaky, or something foreign like that." The waiter consulted a slate. "Ah! here it is, sir–Snaburgh, No. 24; call 7.30.'"

"Has he gone, then?" inquired Pringle anxiously.

"Took his machine out with him soon after eight. The guv'nor objected to his going out before he'd paid his bill, seeing as he'd got no luggage, so he paid up, and then took a look at the time-table, and asked when lunch was on."

"What time-table was it?"

"'A B C' I saw him with."

"Do you expect him back?"

"Can't say for Why, dash my wig, here he is, cycle an' all!"

The cyclist, holding a small black bag and wheeling the machine, wormed his way into the lobby resolutely declining the waiter's assistance. On seeing Pringle he started, then paused, and half turned back, but encumbered as he was his movements were necessarily slow, and Pringle, ignoring the action, advanced with his most engaging smile.

"I'm so pleased to find you're none the worse for your accident. Allow me!" He steadied the machine against the wall. “Have you been for a morning ride?"

"Only to do some shopping," was the ungracious reply.

Mr. Snaburgh, as he called himself, looked all the better for his morning toilet, and Pringle watched him closely in the endeavour to compare him with the rather vague newspaper description. He was certainly thick-set, and might have been any age from thirty to five-and-forty. His moustache was coal-black and drooped in cavalry fashion over his mouth; the chin had already grown a short stubble, and two fresh cuts upon his chops were eloquent of the hasty removal of a recent beard. There was a constant nervous twitching about the eyelids, but although shaded by the peak of the cap, a dirty-coloured corrugation over the right brow was quite apparent. Pringle took special note of the right pupil. As Snaburgh stood he was in a full light, but yet it was unduly dilated, thus showing its insensibility to the light and the blindness of the eye.

"I must apologise for intruding on you so early in the day," said Pringle, with all his wonted suaveness; "but a sprain is often at its worst a few hours after the accident."

"It's all right, thanks," gruffly.

"If I can be of any service to you while you're in town—"

"I'm not going to stay in town! Er—good-morning!" And he resumed his elephantine struggle through the hall.

In face of this snub Pringle could do nothing, and fearful of rousing suspicions which might scare the fugitive into another sudden disappearance, he accepted the dismissal. As he passed out he overheard, "Shall I take the machine, sir?" and the reply, "No, I want a private sitting-room where I can take it."

Pringle meditated upon two facts as he turned homeward. He had ascertained