It was the shrilling of a police whistle, far off down the Embankment.

“Hullo!  That’s a call to the man on point!” exclaimed Collins, all alert at once.  “Excuse me, mum.  See you presently.  Something’s up.  One of my mates is a-signalling me.”

“Mates, monsieur?  Mates?  Signalling?  I shall not understand the vords.  But yes, vat shall that mean—­eh?”

“Good Lord, don’t bother me now!  I—­I mean, wait a bit.  That’s the call to ‘head off’ someone, and—­By George!  There he is now, coming head on, the hound, and running like the wind!”

For of a sudden, through a break in the traffic, a scudding figure had sprung into sight—­the figure of a man in a grey frock-coat and a shining “topper,” a well-groomed, well-set-up man, with a small, turned-up moustache and hair of that peculiar purplish-red one sees only on the shell of a roasted chestnut.  As he swung into sight, the distant whistle shrilled again; far off in the distance voices sent up cries of “Head him off!” “Stop that man!” et cetera; then those on the pavement near to the fugitive took up the cry, joined in pursuit, and in a twinkling, what with cabmen, tram-men, draymen, and pedestrians shouting, there was hubbub enough for Hades.

“A swell pickpocket, I’ll lay my life,” commented Collins, as he squared himself for an encounter and made ready to leap on the man when he came within gripping distance.  “Here! get out of the way, madmazelly.  Business before pleasure.  And, besides, you’re like to get bowled over in the rush.  Here, chauffeur!”—­this to the driver of a big, black motor-car which swept round the angle of the bridge at that moment, and made as though to scud down the Embankment into the thick of the chase—­“pull that thing up sharp!  Stop where you are!  Dead still.  At once, at once, do you hear?  We don’t want you getting in the way.  Now, then”—­nodding his head in the direction of the running man—­“come on you bounder; I’m ready for you!”

And, as if he really heard that invitation, and really was eager to accept it, the red-headed man did “come on” with a vengeance.  And all the time, “madmazelly,” unheeding Collins’s advice, stood calmly and silently waiting.

Onward came the runner, with the whole roaring pack in his wake, dodging in and out among the vehicles, “flooring” people who got in his way, scudding, dodging, leaping, like a fox hard pressed by the hounds—­until, all of a moment he spied a break in the traffic, leapt through it, and—­then there was mischief.  For Collins sprang at him like a cat, gripped two big, strong-as-iron hands on his shoulders, and had him tight and fast.

“Got you, you ass!” snapped he, with a short, crisp, self-satisfied laugh.  “None of your blessed squirming now.  Keep still.  You’ll get out of your coffin, you bounder, as soon as out of my grip.  Got you—­got you!  Do you understand?”

The response to this fairly took the wind out of him.