little walled-in house stood a solitary hansom, the driver asleep
inside. He walked hastily in the direction of Portland Place, now
and then looking round, as though he feared that he was being
followed. At the corner of Rich Street stood two men, reading a
small bill upon a hoarding. An odd feeling of curiosity stirred
him, and he crossed over. As he came near, the word 'Murder,'
printed in black letters, met his eye. He started, and a deep flush
came into his cheek. It was an advertisement offering a reward for
any information leading to the arrest of a man of medium height,
between thirty and forty years of age, wearing a billy-cock hat, a
black coat, and check trousers, and with a scar upon his right
cheek. He read it over and over again, and wondered if the wretched
man would be caught, and how he had been scarred. Perhaps, some
day, his own name might be placarded on the walls of London. Some
day, perhaps, a price would be set on his head also.

The thought made him sick with horror. He turned on his heel, and
hurried on into the night.

Where he went he hardly knew. He had a dim memory of wandering
through a labyrinth of sordid houses, of being lost in a giant web
of sombre streets, and it was bright dawn when he found himself at
last in Piccadilly Circus. As he strolled home towards Belgrave
Square, he met the great waggons on their way to Covent Garden. The
white-smocked carters, with their pleasant sunburnt faces and coarse
curly hair, strode sturdily on, cracking their whips, and calling
out now and then to each other; on the back of a huge grey horse,
the leader of a jangling team, sat a chubby boy, with a bunch of
primroses in his battered hat, keeping tight hold of the mane with
his little hands, and laughing; and the great piles of vegetables