There was another long silence, broken only by the disconnected hissings of Whitey. “To-morrow--we clear ’em out, d’ye hear, Lambaire; I’d rather be at the mercy of a Nut like Amber, than have my life in the hands of a fool like you. An’ how have you got the plates? Wrapped up in a full signed confession, I’ll take my oath! Little tit-bits about the silver business, eh? An’ the printing establishment at Hookley, eh? Full directions and a little diagram to help the Splits--oh, you funny fool!” Lambaire was silent under the tirade. It was nearly dark before Whitey condescended to speak again. “There’s no use our sitting here,” he said roughly. “Come and have some dinner, Lambaire--after all, perhaps it isn’t so bad.” He was slipping back to the old position of second fiddle, his voice betrayed that. Only in his moments of anger did he rise to the domination of his master. In all the years of their association, these strange reversals of mastery had been a feature of their relationship. Now Lambaire came back to his old position of leader. “You gas too much, Whitey,” he said, as he locked the door and descended the dark stairs. “You take too much for granted, and, moreover, you’re a bit too free with your abuse.” “Perhaps I am,” said Whitey feebly. “I’m a Jute Factory on Fire when I’m upset.” “I’ll be more of a salvage corps in future,” said Lambaire humorously. They dined at a little restaurant in Fleet Street, that being the first they found open in their walk westward. “All the same,” said Whitey, as they sat at dinner “we’ve got to get rid of those plates--the note we can explain away; the fact that Amber has it in his possession is more likely to damage him than us--he’s a Suspected Person, an’ he’s under the Act.”[2] “That’s true,” admitted Lambaire, “we’ll get rid of them to-morrow; I know a place----” “To-night!” said Whitey definitely. “It’s no good waitin’ for to-morrow; we might be in the cart to-morrow--we might be in Bridewell to-morrow. I don’t like Amber. He’s not a policeman, Lambaire--he’s a Head--he’s got Education and Horse sense--if he gets Funny, we’ll be sendin’ S.O.S. messages to one another from the cells.” “To-night, then,” agreed Lambaire hastily; he saw Whitey’s anger, so easily aroused, returning to life, “after we’ve had dinner. And what about Amber--who is he? A swell down on his luck or what?” Throughout these pages there may be many versions of the rise and fall of Amber, most, indeed all but one, from Amber’s lips. Whether Whitey’s story was nearer the truth than any other the reader will discover in time. “Amber? He’s Rum. He’s been everything, from Cow-boy to Actor. I’ve heard about him before. He’s a Hook because he loves Hooking. That’s the long and the short of it. He’s been to College.”