often read of people of hasty temper, evading the police for a time, and
eventually falling into their hands for lack of the most elementary
common sense. He had heard it said that they always made some stupid
blunder, left behind them some damning clue. He took his revolver from a
drawer and saw that it was loaded. If the worst came to the worst, he
would die quickly.

Eight hours' start; two hundred odd pounds. He would take lodgings at
first in some populous district, and let the hair on his face grow. When
the hue-and-cry had ceased, he would go abroad and start life again. He
would go out of a night and post letters to himself, or better still,
postcards, which his landlady would read. Postcards from cheery friends,
from a sister, from a brother. During the day he would stay in and
write, as became a man who described himself as a journalist.

Or suppose he went to the sea? Who would look for him in flannels,
bathing and boating with ordinary happy mortals? He sat and pondered.
One might mean life, and the other death. Which?

His face burned as he thought of the responsibility of the choice. So
many people went to the sea at that time of year that he would surely
pass unnoticed. But at the sea one might meet acquaintances. He got up
and nervously paced the room again. It was not so simple, now that it
meant so much, as he had thought.

The sharp little clock on the mantel-piece rang out "one," followed
immediately by the deeper note of that in the library. He thought of the
clock, it seemed the only live thing in that room, and shuddered. He
wondered whether the thing lying by the far side of the table heard it.
He wondered----