the guard and attendant were ready to declare positively that no
person could have been concealed in it. The engine-driver, on his
part, was equally ready to swear that not once from the moment
when they had steamed out of Liverpool Station until they had
arrived within twenty miles of London, had they travelled at less
than forty miles an hour. At Willington he had found a signal
against him which had brought him nearly to a standstill, and
under the regulations he had passed through the station at ten
miles an hour. These were the only occasions, however, on which
he had slackened speed at all. The train attendant, who was a
nervous man, began to shiver again and imagine unmentionable
things. The guard, who had never left his own brake, went home
and dreamed that his effigy had been added to the collection of
Madame Tussaud. The reporters were the only people who were
really happy, with the exception, perhaps of Inspector Jacks, who
had a weakness for a difficult case.

Fifteen miles north of London, a man lay by the roadside in the
shadow of a plantation of pine trees, through which he had
staggered only a few minutes ago. His clothes were covered with
dust, he had lost his cap, and his trousers were cut about the
knee as though from a fall. He was of somewhat less than medium
height, dark, slender, with delicate features, and hair almost
coal black. His face, as he moved slowly from side to side upon
the grass, was livid with pain. Every now and then he raised
himself and listened. The long belt of main road, which passed
within a few feet of him, seemed almost deserted. Once a cart
came lumbering by, and the man who lay there, watching, drew
closely back into the shadows. A youth on a bicycle passed,
singing to himself. A boy and girl strolled by, arm in arm,