Right under him when he looked out, stood a short, burly figure; another man was taking intermittent hauls at the arms of their leg-tied companion, regardless of his stifled cries of pain when he did so. Clare went and fetched his water-jug, which was half full, and leaning out once more, with the jug upright in his two hands, moved it this way and that until he had it, as nearly as he could determine, just over the man beneath him, and then dropped it. The jug fell plumb, and might have killed the man but that he bent his head at the moment, and received it between his shoulders. It knocked the breath out of him, and he lay motionless. The other man fled. The window-stopper, hearing the crash of the jug, wrenched and kicked and struggled, but in vain. There he had to wait the sunrise, for not a moment sooner would the cook open the door. When they went out at last, the stout man too was gone. He had risen and staggered into the shrubbery, and there fallen, but had risen once more and got away. Their captive pretended to be all but dead, thinking to move their pity and be set free. But Clare went to the next house and got the man-servant there to go for the police, begging him to make haste: he knew that his tender-hearted mistress, if she came down before the police arrived, would certainly let the fellow go, and Tommy with him; and he was determined the law should have its way if he could compass it. What hope was there for the wretched Tommy if he was allowed to escape! And what right had they to let such people loose on their neighbours! It was selfishness to indulge one’s own pity to the danger of others! He would be his brother’s keeper by holding on to his brother’s enemy! Going at last to his room, he found Tommy asleep. The boy was better dressed, but no cleaner than when first he knew him. Clare proceeded to wash and dress. Tommy woke, and lay staring, but did not utter a sound. “Have your sleep out,” said Clare. “The police won’t be here, I daresay, for an hour yet.” “I believe you!” returned Tommy, as impudent as ever. His contemplation of Clare had revived his old contempt for him. “I mean to go. I ain’t done nothing.” “Go, then,” said Clare, and took no more heed of him. “If it’s manners you want, Clare,” resumed Tommy, “_please_ let me go!” Clare turned and looked at him. The evil expression was hardened on his countenance. He gave him no answer. “You ain’t never agoin’ to turn agin an old pal, aire you?” said Tommy. “I ain’t a pal of yours, Tommy, or of any other thief’s!” answered Clare. “I’ll take my oath on it to the beak!” “You’ll soon have the chance; I’ve sent for the police.” Tommy changed his tone. “Please, Clare, let me go,” he whined. “I will not. I did what I could for you before, and I’ll do what I can for you now. You must go with the police.” Tommy began to blubber, or pretend--Clare could not tell which. “This beastly string’s a cuttin’ into me!” he sobbed.