The shadows were creeping down on Giles's Rents, hiding its grime,
its misery and squalor, what time Barnabas stepped out into the court,
and, turning his back upon the shadowy River, strode along,
watchful-eyed, toward that dark corner where the Bow Street Runners
still lounged, smoking their pipes and talking together in their
rumbling tones. As he drew nearer he became aware that they had
ceased their talk and guessed rather than saw that he was the object
of their scrutiny; nor was he mistaken, for as he came abreast of
where they stood, one of them lurched towards him.
"Why, hullo, Joe," exclaimed the man, in a tone of rough familiarity,
"strike me blue if this ain't fort'nate! 'Ow goes it, Joe?"
"My name isn't Joe," said Barnabas, pausing, for the man had lurched
in front of him, barring his way.
"Not Joe, eh?" growled the man, thrusting his head unpleasantly
close to Barnabas to peer into his face, "not Joe, eh? Why then
p'r'aps it might be--Barnabas, eh? P'r'aps it might be--Beverley, eh?
Barnabas Beverley like-wise, eh? All right, Ben!" he called to his
mate, "it's our man right enough!"
"What do you mean?" inquired Barnabas, casting a swift glance about
him; and thus, he saw a moving shadow some distance down the court,
a furtive shape that flitted towards them where the gathering shadows
lay thickest. And at the sight, Barnabas clenched his fists and
poised himself for swift action.
"What do you want?" he demanded, his gaze still wandering, his ears
hearkening desperately for the sound of creeping footsteps behind,
"what do you want with me?"
"W'y, we wants you, to be sure," answered Runner No. 1. "We wants you,
Barnabas Beverley, Esk-vire, for the murder of Jasper Gaunt. And,
wot's more--we've got ye! And, wot's more--you'd better come along
nice and quiet in the name o' the--"
But in that moment, even as he reached out to seize the prisoner,
Runner No. 1 felt himself caught in a powerful wrestling grip, his
legs were swept from under him, and he thudded down upon the cobbles.
Then, as Barnahas turned to meet the rush of Runner No. 2, behold a
dark figure, that leapt from the dimness behind, and bore No. 2,
cursing savagely, staggering back and back to the wall, and pinned
him there, while, above the scuffling, the thud of blows and the
trample of feet, rose a familiar voice: "Run, sir--run!" cried John Peterby, "I've got this one--run!"
Incontinent, Barnabas turned, and taking to his heels, set off along
the court, but with No. 1 (who had scrambled to his feet again)
thundering after him in hot pursuit, roaring for help as he came.
"Stop, thief!" bellowed No. 1, pounding along behind.
"Stop, thief!" roared Barnabas, pounding along in front.