again, held him secure and
himself scathless, and bore him out of the house.

A crowd gathers in a moment in London, speeding to a fray as the
vultures to carrion. On the heels of the population of the neighbouring
mews came two policemen, and at the same moment out came the barman to
the assistance of Andrew. But Falconer was as well known to the police
as if he had a ticket-of-leave, and a good deal better.

'Call a four-wheel cab,' he said to one of them. 'I'm all right.'

The man started at once. Falconer turned to the other.

'Tell that man in the apron,' he said, 'that I'll make him all due
reparation. But he oughtn't to be in such a hurry to meddle. He gave me
no time but to strike hard.'

'Yes, sir,' answered the policeman obediently. The crowd thought he must
be a great man amongst the detectives; but the bar-keeper vowed he would
'summons' him for the assault.

'You may, if you like,' said Falconer. 'When I think of it, you shall do
so. You know where I live?' he said, turning to the policeman.

'No, sir, I don't. I only know you well enough.'

'Put your hand in my coat-pocket, then, and you'll find a card-case. The
other. There! Help yourself.'

He said this with his arms round Andrew's, who had ceased to cry out
when he saw the police.

'Do you want to give this gentleman in charge, sir?'

'No. It is a little private affair of my own, this.'

'Hadn't you better let him go, sir, and we'll find him for you when you
want him?'

'No. He may give me in charge if he likes. Or if you should want him,
you will find him at my house.'

Then pinioning his prisoner still more tightly in his arms, he leaned
forward, and whispered in his ear,

'Will you go home quietly, or give me in charge? There is no other way,
Andrew Falconer.'

He ceased struggling. Through all the flush of the contest his face
grew pale. His arms dropped by his side. Robert let him go, and he stood
there without offering to move. The cab came up; the policeman got out;
Andrew stepped in of his own accord, and Robert followed.

'You see it's all right,' he said. 'Here, give the barman a sovereign.
If he wants more, let me know. He deserved all he got, but I was wrong.
John Street.'

His father did not speak a word, or ask a question all the way home.
Evidently he thought it safer to be silent. But the drink he had taken,
though not enough to intoxicate him, was more than enough to bring back
the old longing with redoubled forc