toes, as he stood in the shadows close to the entrance of the villa
where Officer Keating lived when off duty, were soon thoroughly frozen.
He did not dare to stamp his feet, for at any moment now the victim
might arrive. And when the victim weighs fourteen stone, against the
high priest's eight and a half, it behooves the latter to be
circumspect, if the sacrifice is to be anything like a success. So Mr.
Buffin waited and froze in silence. It was a painful process, and he
added it to the black score which already stood against Officer
Keating. Never had his thirst for revenge been more tormenting. It is
doubtful if a strictly logical and impartial judge would have held Mr.
Keating to blame for the fact that Sid Marks' suspicions (and all that
those suspicions entailed) had fallen upon Mr. Buffin; but the Spider
did so. He felt fiercely resentful against the policeman for placing
him in such an unpleasant and dangerous position. As his thoughts ran
on the matter, he twisted his fingers tighter round his stick.
As he did so there came from down the road the brisk tramp of feet and
a cheerful whistling of "The Wearing of the Green." It is a lugubrious
song as a rule, but, as rendered by Officer Keating returning home with
theatre tickets, it had all the joyousness of a march-tune.
Every muscle in Mr. Buffin's body stiffened. He gripped his stick and
waited. The road was deserted. In another moment....
And then, from nowhere, dark indistinct forms darted out like rats. The
whistling stopped in the middle of a bar. A deep-chested oath rang out,
and then a confused medley of sound, the rasping of feet, a growling
almost canine, a sharp yelp, gasps, and over all the vast voice of
Officer Keating threatening slaughter.
For a moment Mr. Buffin stood incapable of motion. The thing had been
so sudden, so unexpected. And then, as he realised what was happening,
there swept over him in a wave a sense of intolerable injustice. It is
not easy to describe his emotions, but they resembled most nearly those
of an inventor whose patent has been infringed, or an author whose idea
has been stolen. For weeks--and weeks that had seemed like years--he
had marked down Officer Keating for his prey. For weeks he had tortured
a mind all unused to thinking into providing him with schemes for
accomplishing his end. He had outraged his nature by being civil to a
policeman. He had risked his life by incurring the suspicions of Sid
Marks. He had bought a stick. And he had waited in the cold till his
face was blue and his feet blocks of ice. And now ... _now_ ...
after all this ... a crowd of irresponsible strangers, with no rights
in the man whatsoever probably, if the truth were known, filled with
mere ignoble desire for his small change, had dared to rush in and jump
his claim before his very eyes.
With one passionate cry, Mr. Buffin, forgetting his frozen feet, lifted
his stick, and galloped down the road to protect his property....
"That's the stuff," said a voice. "Pour some more into him, Jerry."
Mr. Buffin opened his eyes. A familiar taste was in his mouth. Somebody
of liberal ideas seemed to be pouring whisky down his throat. Could
this be Heaven? He raised his head, and a sharp pain shot through it.
And with the pain came recollection. He remembered now, dimly, as if it
had all happened in another life, the mad rush down the road, the
momentary pause in the conflict, and then its noisy renewal on a more
impressive scale. He remembered striking out left and right with his