was called. My man Paddock had given the alarm and had the milkman
arrested. Poor devil, it looked as if the latter had earned his
sovereign hardly; but for me he had been cheap at the price, for he
seemed to have occupied the police for the better part of the day. In
the latest news I found a further instalment of the story. The milkman
had been released, I read, and the true criminal, about whose identity
the police were reticent, was believed to have got away from London
by one of the northern lines. There was a short note about me as the
owner of the flat. I guessed the police had stuck that in, as a clumsy
contrivance to persuade me that I was unsuspected.

There was nothing else in the paper, nothing about foreign
politics or Karolides, or the things that had interested Scudder. I
laid it down, and found that we were approaching the station at
which I had got out yesterday. The potato-digging station-master
had been gingered up into some activity, for the west-going train
was waiting to let us pass, and from it had descended three men
who were asking him questions. I supposed that they were the local
police, who had been stirred up by Scotland Yard, and had traced
me as far as this one-horse siding. Sitting well back in the shadow I
watched them carefully. One of them had a book, and took down
notes. The old potato-digger seemed to have turned peevish, but
the child who had collected my ticket was talking volubly. All the
party looked out across the moor where the white road departed. I
hoped they were going to take up my tracks there.

As we moved away from that station my companion woke up.
He fixed me with a wandering glance, kicked his dog viciously, and
inquired where he was. Clearly he was very drunk.