He decided to trust to chance, and therein lay the germ of complications which might well have given him pause, could he have peered into the future.
Having successfully performed the trick of the cab "bilker" by leaving his motor outside a hotel, Rupert hurried away from the main stream of fashion along several narrow streets until his attention was caught by a tiny restaurant on which the day's eatables were scrawled in French. It was in Soho; an open-air market promised diversion; and he was wondering how winkles tasted, extracted from their shells with a pin, when some commotion arose at the end of an alley. A four-wheeled cab had wormed its way through a swarm of picturesque loafers, and was drawn up close to the kerb. Pavement and street were pullulating with child life, and the appearance from the interior of the cab of a couple of strongly-built, square-shouldered men seemed to send an electric wave through adults and children alike.
Instantly there was a rush, and Rupert was pinned in the crowd between a stout Frenchwoman and a young Italian who reeked of the kitchen.
"What is it, then?" he asked, addressing madame in her own language.
"They are police agents, those men there," she answered.
"But no, monsieur. Two miserables who call themselves Anarchists have been sent back to France, and the police are taking their luggage. A nice thing, chasing such scarecrows and letting that bad American who killed Mademoiselle de Bercy go free. Poor lady! I saw her many times. Ah, _mon Dieu_, how I wept when I read of her terrible end!"
Rupert caught his breath. So he was judged and found guilty even in the gutter!
"Perhaps the police know that Monsieur Osborne did not kill her," he managed to say in a muffled tone.
"Oh, là, là!" cried the woman. "He has money, _ce vilain_ Osborne!"
The ironic phrase was pitiless. It denounced, condemned, explained. Rupert forced a laugh.
"Truly, money can do almost anything," he said.
A detective came out of the passage, laden with dilapidated packages. The woman smiled broadly, saying:
"My faith, they do not prosper, those Anarchists."
Rupert edged his way through the crowd. On the opposite side of the street the contents bills of the early editions of the evening newspapers glared at him: "West End murder--Relatives sail from Jersey." "Portrait sketch of Osborne"; "Paris Life of Rose de Bercy"; the horror of it all suddenly stifled his finer impulses: from that hour Rupert squared his shoulders and meant to scowl at the jeering multitude.