So they went back to whence they came; and the impression that the night’s adventure left upon them was heightened as the days went by.  For, strange to say, though they watched all the usual channels of information, as Ministers say; in Parliament, and also tried to open up some unusual ones, they never heard anything again of the Sergeant, of the sack of gold, of the yawning tomb with its golden lining, of its silent waxen-faced enthroned guardian who had defeated them.  It all—­the whole bizarre scene—­vanished from their ken, as though it had been one of those alluring, thwarting dreams which afflict men in sleep.  It was an experience to which they were shy of alluding among their confidential friends, even of talking about between themselves.  In a word—­uncomfortable!

Meanwhile the Sergeant’s association with Tower Cottage had also drawn to its close.  After his search and his discovery in the Tower, Beaumaroy came out into the passage where the prisoner lay, and proceeded to unfasten his bonds.

“Stand up and listen to me, Sergeant,” he said.  “Your pals have run away; they can’t help you, and they wouldn’t if they could, because, owing to you, they haven’t got away with any plunder, and so they’ll be in a very bad temper with you.  In the road, in front of the house, is Captain Naylor—­you know that officer and his dimensions?  He’s in a very temper with you too. (Here Beaumaroy was embroidering the situation; the Sergeant was not really in Captain Alec’s thoughts.) Finally, I’m in a very bad temper with you myself.  If I see your ugly phiz much longer, I may break out.  Don’t you think you’d better depart—­by the back door—­and go home?  And if you’re not out of Inkston for good and all by ten o’clock in the morning, and if you ever show yourself there again, look out for squalls.  What you’ve got out of this business I don’t know.  You can keep it—­and I’ll give you a parting present myself as well.”

“I knows a thing or two—­” the Sergeant began, but he saw a look that he had seen only once or twice before on Beaumaroy’s face; on each occasion it had been followed by the death of the enemy whose act had elicited it.

“Oh, try that game, just try it!” Beaumaroy muttered.  “Just give me that excuse!” He advanced to the Sergeant, who fell suddenly on his knees.  “Don’t make a noise, you hound, or I’ll silence you for good and all—­I’d do it for twopence!” He took hold of the Sergeant’s coat-collar, jerked him on to his legs, and propelled him to the kitchen and through it to the back door.  Opening it, he dispatched the Sergeant through the doorway with an accurate and vigorous kick.  He fell, and lay sprawling on the ground for a second, then gathered himself up and ran hastily over the heath, soon disappearing in the darkness.  The memory of Beaumaroy’s look was even keener than the sensation caused by Beaumaroy’s boot.  It sent him in flight back to Inkston, thence to London, thence into the unknown, to some spot chosen for its remoteness from Beaumaroy, from Captain Naylor, from Mike and from Neddy.  He recognized his unpopularity, thereby achieving a triumph in a difficult little branch of wisdom.