Then the oily fellow sneezed sadly, and the count himself came out of the alley and set off down the road. He came within a foot of me, and I had a good look at him: a lean, wolfish, twitchy sort of individual, with a gnawing look about him—he might have been chewing the handle of his stick, now I come to think of it—and eyes with the white showing all round the pupil. Like his heart was being squeezed dry, making his eyes pop out. Disagreeable. I watched him stride off down the road, and then I got out of the bush and followed the oily-looking fellow. I hoped he’d go near the river, and he did—and I popped up by the bridge and beckoned to him.

“Shhh!” I said, putting my finger to my lips.

He crept up on tiptoe, like a stork in slippers. “What is it?” he said.

“Down there!” I whispered. “Shhh!”

“What?” He peered over the bridge.

“Down there in the shadows,” I whispered.

“What? What?”

“Someone moving—look—lean over a bit more—”

“I can’t see….”

So he leaned further out, and I tipped him in. Served him right. I let him yell and splash for a bit, and I yelled and roared as well to make him think he was drowning and being swept away, and then I went down the bank and hauled him out. He’d had a good soaking and he was starting to bubble a bit; and I laid him on a good sharp rock and knelt on him, to squeeze the water out, as I told him, and he yelled a good bit more, until windows opened and sleepy heads looked out and told us what they thought of it all. They knew some choice language, too.

“Did you see ’em?” I said.

“S-s-see who?” (Sneeze, sneeze, sneeze.)

“An Italian-looking feller and a little girl,” I said, “creeping along the bank. They looked like they was up to no good.”

“W-w-where did they go?” (Sneeze, sneeze.) “I m-m-must find them! E-m-m-mergency!” (Sneeze.)

I pointed—anywhere—and he was off, dripping and sneezing and squelching and shivering. Pathetic, of course; but I couldn’t help being a little afraid of whatever it was that could make a spindly little runt like him so neglectful of his own comfort as to run about on a winter’s night, still doing his master’s business, even after a soaking like that. It must have been pretty powerful; so instead of laughing at him, I felt—as I said—afraid.

Oh, yes, Max Grindoff’s not ashamed to admit it. I can be frightened sometimes. And I was more frightened than this before we’d finished.