The moment came at last. A shrill whistle sounded somewhere out of the blackness of the night. It was answered, in an instant, with deafening intensity, by the melancholy man, who on the instant leapt upon Tokely, and seemed to be doing something extraordinary, in the midst of a violent struggle, with that gentleman’s arms. In less time than it takes to tell, a figure appeared, through the glass of one window, racing along beside the vehicle; the door was wrenched open, and Philip was tumbled out, with the melancholy man literally on top of him, into the road; the door was slammed, and the horse, maddened by a cut across his haunches from a long whip, fairly took the bit in his teeth, and dashed straight down the road like a racer. The last that Philip saw of the vehicle, as he sat up in the road and looked after it, was it swaying from side to side of the road, while the unfortunate Tokely (whose arms had been pinioned behind him with true sailor-like adroitness) had his head thrust out of one window, and was vainly shouting to the driver. Then, a familiar voice broke upon Philip’s ear, and Captain Quist, looking ruefully at a tall silk hat, which lay battered in the roadway, and on which some one must have fallen, muttered a familiar phrase. “That comes,” said the Captain, “of gettin’ into bad company.” CHAPTER XXI DR. CRIPPS IS INCOHERENT When that unfortunate and much battered football of Fate—Dr. Cripps—was left, stranded and alone, at Liverpool Street Station, he cast about in his mind as to what was best to be done. His small share of the spoils of the Sheffield robbery had been passed into the hands of a person, who had promised to effect a safe exchange; and Cripps was, as usual, remarkably short of money. He remembered too, not with contrition, but with something of alarm, that he had, in a moment of forgetfulness, struck a man on a vital spot with a decanter, and left him apparently dead; so that there might be consequences to be feared. On the other hand, money must be screwed out of somebody, and he was at a loss to know to whom to turn for it. Woolwich was barren country; for the recent tragic events, and the stir created by the bank robbery, had scattered the band, and it was quite unlikely that he would have a chance of meeting any member of it. However, the barren country had to be tried; much liquid refreshment was necessary to him, and it had to be obtained somewhere. Accordingly, for nearly a week he haunted those shady, out-at-elbows places near the river, in the hope of meeting a friend. But friends were scarce and shy; and, although he met one or two, and pleaded his position successfully, it was hard and uphill work. At the end of a week, he had come perilously near to spirituous starvation—and was, in direct consequence, more sober than he had been for years past.