"I haven't any curiosity," still clinging to thieves' jargon or St.
Giles Greek. "But I'm sure you won't play me the trick you did the last
time I saw you."

The fellow shot his head near; in his look shone a gleam of recognition.
"You're the swell cove who wanted to palaver that night when--"

"You tried to rob me of my purse?"

John Steele laughed; his glance lingered on his bulky adversary with
odd, persistent exhilaration, as if after all that had gone before, this
contest royal, which promised to become one of sheer brute strength,
awoke to its utmost a primal fighting force in him. "Do you know the
penalty for attempting that game, Tom Rogers, alias Tom-o'-the-Road;
alias---"

The man fell back, in his eyes a look of ferocious wonderment. "Who are
you? By---!" he said.

"John Steele."

"John Steele?" The bloodshot eyes became slightly vacuous. "The--? Then
you used him," indicating savagely the entrance at the back, "for a duck
to uncover?" Steele nodded. "And you're the one who's been so long at my
heels?" Rage caused the hot blood to suffuse the man's face. "I'll burke
you for that."

John Steele did not stir; for an instant his look, confident, assured,
seemed to keep the other back. "How? With the lead, or--"