While all the household radiated about Dwala’s sick-bed, and there
was no attention for any other thing, the Biologist ran swiftly up
the stairs, guided by a superhuman instinct of despair, straight to
the American’s room. He was going to seize the ‘Memoirs’ and burn
them. Dwala was dying; no new authentic copy could be produced again.
In the doorway he saw that his instincts had guided him aright.
American things greeted his eyes--an American hat on the chest of
drawers, American corn-cob pipes on the mantelpiece. But what was this?
Something alive in the room! A man crouching behind the table with a
bundle of papers. It was Prosser ‘doing something big’ at last. Too
much astonished to move for a moment, Sir Peter stood staring stupidly
at the frightened, cowering figure behind the table.
‘Hello: what are you doin’ here?’ said a voice in the doorway. Then the
American espied the broken desk, and a moment later the Biologist found
himself clutched by the collar, trying helplessly to protect his head
from a flailing fist, while Prosser’s shadow shot low and horizontal
through the doorway.
‘The Memoirs! the Memoirs!’ yelled the Biologist. ‘The d----d thief’s
stolen the Memoirs! Let me go! Let me go! It’s Prosser, not me! Oh, for
God’s sake, don’t hit me again!’
At the mention of Prosser the American stayed his hand, fumbled Sir
Peter’s pockets, then snatched him by the collar, and ran down the
stairs, dragging him after him like a live thing in a sack. But they
were too slow for Prosser. As they came out into Park Lane shouting
‘Stop thief! stop thief!’ there was the fat policeman saluting and
grinning delightedly.
‘He’s got clean away this time, sir.’
‘Heavens alive! Why didn’t you stop him?’
‘I knows my place, sir’--with a wink. ‘It’s only Mr. Prosser.’
‘Blow your whistle, man! Blow your whistle! He’s stolen State Papers.’
The policeman walked very slowly forward to the edge of the pavement
and looked up and down the road, then turned about, smiling rather
nervously.
‘Do you reely mean it, sir?’
‘Good Lord!’ said the American, and started off running madly without
another word into Oxford Street; while the Biologist careered, wild
and hatless, up Grosvenor Street, yelling desperately ‘Prosser, _dear_
Prosser!’ to the scandal of Mayfair.