"Let me at him, ye--!" he cried in foul and flash tongue, when John
Steele suddenly called him by name, said something in that selfsame
dialect of pickpurses and their ilk.

Whatever the words or their portent, the effect was startling. Steele's
bulky assailant paused, remained stock-still, his purpose arrested, all
his anger gone out of him.

"How the--? Who--?" the man began.

"Call off your fellows!" John Steele's voice seemed to thrill; a fierce
elation shone from his glance. "I want to talk with you. It'll be more
worth your while than any prigging or bagging you've ever yet done."

"Well, I'm blowed!" The man's tone was puzzled; surprise, suspicion
gleamed from the bloodshot eyes. "How should a swell gent like you
know--? And you want to talk with me? Here's a gamey cove!"

"I tell you I must talk with you! And it will be better for you, my
man--" a sharp metallic click told that the speaker had turned the key
in the lock behind him--"to step in here with me. You needn't be afraid
I'm going to nab you; I've got a lay better than hooking you for the
dock. As for the others, they can go, for all of me."

"Oh, they can!" The big man's face expressed varying feelings--vague
wonder; at the same time he began to edge cautiously away. "That would
be a nice plant, wouldn't it? Let's out of this, blokies!" suddenly,
"this cove knows too much, and--"