"He is the slickest, cleverest
crook that ever drew the breath of life. And he's got away with the
jewels, for which you can whistle in vain, I'm thinking."
"For Heaven's sake, O'Dowd--" began Barnes, his blood like ice in his
veins.
"But don't take my word for it. Ask her,--upstairs there, God bless
her!--ask her if she knows Chester Naismith. She'll tell ye, my bucko.
He's been standing guard outside her window for the past three nights.
He's--"
"Now, I know you are mistaken," cried Barnes, a wave of relief surging
over him. "He has been in this Tavern every night--"
"Sure he has. But he never was here after eleven o'clock, was he?
Answer me, did ye ever see him here after eleven in the evening? You
did not,--not until last night, anyhow. In the struggle he had with
Nicholas last night his whiskers came off and he was recognised.
That's why poor old Nicholas is lying dead up there at the house now,
--and will have a decent burial unbeknownst to anybody but his
friends."
"Whiskers? Dead?" jerked from Barnes's lips.
"Didn't you know he had false ones on?"
"He did not have them on when he left me," declared Barnes. "Good God,
O'Dowd, you can't mean that he--he killed--"
"He stuck a knife in his neck.
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