A good deal of orderly commotion took place the following morning.
Cunningham's crew, under the temporary leadership of Cleve, proceeded to
make everything shipshape. There was no exuberance; they went at the
business quietly and grimly. They sensed a shadow overhead. The revolt of
the six discovered to the others what a rickety bridge they were crossing,
how easily and swiftly a jest may become a tragedy.

They had accepted the game as a kind of huge joke. Everything had been
prepared against failure; it was all cut and dried; all they had to do was
to believe themselves. For days they had gone about their various duties
thinking only of the gay time that would fall to their lot when they left
the Wanderer. The possibility that Cleigh would not proceed in the
manner advanced by Cunningham's psychology never bothered them until now.
Supposing the old man's desire for vengeance was stronger than his love
for his art objects? He was a fighter; he had proved it last night.
Supposing he put up a fight and called in the British to help him?

Not one of them but knew what the penalty would be if pursued and caught.
But Cunningham had persuaded them up to this hour that they would not even
be pursued; that it would not be humanly possible for Cleigh to surrender
the hope of eventually recovering his unlawful possessions. And now they
began to wonder, to fret secretly, to reconsider the ancient saying that
the way of the transgressor is hard.