"How do you know?" demanded Kirkwood crisply, tightening his grip on his
stick.

Was this the second shadow he had seemed to see--the confederate of him who
had entered Number 9; a sentry to forestall interruption? If so, the fellow
lacked discretion, though his determination that the American should not
interfere was undeniable. It was with an ugly and truculent manner, if more
warily, that the man closed in.

"I knows. You clear hout, or--"

He flung out a hand with the plausible design of grasping Kirkwood by the
collar. The latter lifted his stick, deflecting the arm, and incontinently
landed his other fist forcibly on the fellow's chest. The man reeled back,
cursing. Before he could recover Kirkwood calmly crossed the threshold,
closed the door and put his shoulder to it. In another instant, fumbling in
the darkness, he found the bolts and drove them home.

And it was done, the transformation accomplished; his inability to refrain
from interfering had encompassed his downfall, had changed a peaceable and
law-abiding alien within British shores into a busybody, a trespasser, a
misdemeanant, a--yes, for all he knew to the contrary, in the estimation of
the Law, a burglar, prime candidate for a convict's stripes!

Breathing hard with excitement he turned and laid his back against the
panels, trembling in every muscle, terrified by the result of his impulsive
audacity, thunder-struck by a lightning-like foreglimpse of its possible
consequences. Of what colossal imprudence had he not been guilty?

"The devil!" he whispered. "What an ass, what an utter ass I am!"