rth of Kensington. He
walked slowly, but with an apparent purpose. Lovel stopped for a moment
at the White House, a dirty little hedge tavern, to swallow a mouthful
of ale, and tell a convincing lie to John Rawson, the innkeeper, in case
it should come in handy some day. Then occurred a diversion. Young Mr.
Forset's harriers swept past, a dozen riders attended by a ragged foot
following. They checked by the path, and in the confusion of the halt
Godfrey seemed to vanish. It was not till close on Paddington village
that Mr. Lovel picked him up again. He was waiting for the darkness,
for he knew that he could never do what he purposed in cold daylight.
He hoped that the magistrate would make for Kensington, for that was a
lonely path.

But Sir Edmund seemed to be possessed of a freakish devil. No sooner was
he in Paddington than, after buying a glass of milk from a milk-woman,
he set off citywards again by the Oxford road. Here there were many
people, foot travellers and coaches, and Mr. Lovel began to fear for his
chance. But at Tyburn Godfrey struck into the fields and presently was
in the narrow lane called St. Martin's Hedges, which led to Charing
Cross. Now was the occasion. The dusk was falling, and a light mist
was creeping up from Westminster. Lovel quickened his steps, for the
magistrate was striding at a round pace. Then came mischance. First one,
then another of the Marylebone cow-keepers blocked the lane with their
driven beasts. The place became as public as Bartholomew's Fair. Before
he knew it he was at Charing Cross.

He was now in a foul temper. He cursed his weakness in the morning, when
fate had given him every opportunity. He was in despair too. His case
was hopeless unless he struck soon. If Godfrey returned to Hartshorn
Lane he himself would be in Newgate on the morrow.... Fortunately the
strange man did not seem to want to go home. He moved east along the
Strand, Lovel a dozen yards behind him.

Out from the dark Savoy entry ran a woman, screaming, and with her hair
flying. She seized on Godfrey and clutched his knees. There was a bloody
fray inside, in which her husband fought against odds. The watch was not
to be found. Would he, the great magistrate, intervene? The very sight
of his famous face would quell riot.

Sir Edmund looked up and down the street, pinched his chin and peered
down the precipitous Savoy causeway. Whatever the burden on his soul he
did not forget his duty.

"Show me," h