He stood with strained face listening.

"Here they come," whispered the jeweller with a sudden movement of alarm.

Brother Burge turned, and bolting into his room clapped the door to and
locked it. The jeweller stood dumbfounded on the landing; then he heard
the window go up and the voice of Brother Burge, much strengthened by the
religious exercises of the past six months, bellowing lustily for the
police.

For a few seconds Mr. Higgs stood listening and wondering what
explanation he should give. Still thinking, he ran downstairs, and,
throwing open the pantry window, unlocked the door leading into the shop
and scattered a few of his cherished possessions about the floor. By the
time he had done this, people were already beating upon the street-door
and exchanging hurried remarks with Mr. Burge at the window above. The
jeweller shot back the bolts, and half-a-dozen neighbours, headed by the
butcher opposite, clad in his nightgown and armed with a cleaver, burst
into the passage. A constable came running up just as the pallid face of
Brother Burge peered over the balusters. The constable went upstairs
three at a time, and twisting his hand in the ex-burglar's neck-cloth
bore him backwards.

"I've got one," he shouted. "Come up and hold him while I look round."

The butcher was beside him in a moment; Brother Burge struggling wildly,
called loudly upon the name of Brother Higgs.

"That's all right, constable," said the latter, "that's a friend of
mine."