"Yes, that is it."

"You had better be careful what you are doing." Dick had advanced a
pace, but the agent sheered off twice as far, as though the air between
them was not only cold but resilient.

"I shall be quite careful. Just one small punch, say a sovereign's
worth. Come, that is cheap enough."

Then the man ran off at top speed. Royson could have caught him in a
few strides, but he did not move. He had not meant to hit, only to
scare, yet the incident was perplexing, and the more he pondered over
it the less pleased he was at his own lack of finesse, as he might have
learnt something without fear of indiscretion, seeing that he had
nothing to tell. Nevertheless, his final decision was in favor of the
first impulse. Von Kerber had treated him with confidence--why should
he wish to possess any disturbing knowledge of von Kerber?

But he refused to be shadowed like a thief. He stepped out, left the
park at Stanhope Gate, jumped on to a passing omnibus, changed it for
another in the middle of Oxford Street, and walked down. Regent Street
with a well-founded belief that he had defeated espionage for the time.
Thereafter, he behaved exactly like several hundred thousand young men
In London that night. He dined, bought some cigars, rare luxuries to
him, went to a music-hall, soon wearied of its inanities, and traveled
by an early train to Brixton, where he rented cheap lodgings.

He slept the sleep of sound digestion, which is so often confused with
a good conscience, and rose betimes. At a city tailoring establishment
he was measured dubiously, being far removed from stock size. But a