came to a crossing, and rushed upon it regardless of the traffic,
Before he could gain the farther pavement the shaft of a cart struck
him on the breast and threw him down. The vehicle was going at a slow
pace, and could be stopped almost immediately; he was not touched by
the wheel. A man helped him to his feet and inquired if he were hurt.

'Hurt? No, no; it's all right.'

To the surprise of those who had witnessed the accident, he walked
quickly on, scarcely feeling any pain. But in a few minutes there came
a sense of nausea and a warm rush in his throat; he staggered against
the wall and vomited a quantity of blood. Again he was surrounded by
sympathising people; again he made himself free of them and hastened
on. But by now he suffered acutely; he could not run, so great was the
pain it cost him when he began to breathe quickly. His mouth was full
of blood again.

Where could he find a hiding-place? The hunters were after him, and,
however great his suffering, he must go through it in secrecy. But in
what house could he take refuge? He had not money enough to pay for a
lodging.

He looked about him; tried to collect his thoughts. By this time the
police would have visited Merlin Place; they would be waiting there to
trap him. He was tempted towards Farringdon Road Buildings; surely his
father would not betray him, and he was in such dire need of kindly
help. But it would not be safe; the police would search there.

Shooter's Gardens? There was the room where lived Pennyloaf's drunken
mother and her brother. They would not give him up. He could think of
no other refuge, at all events, and must go there if he would not drop
in the street.

CHAPTER XXXVII

MAD JACK'S DREAM

It was not much more than a quarter of an hour's walk, but pain and
fear made the distance seem long; he went out of his way, too, for the
sake of avoiding places that were too well lighted. The chief
occupation of his thoughts was in conjecturing what could have led to
Bartley's arrest. Had the fellow been such a fool as to attempt passing
a bad coin when he carried others of the same kind in his pocket? Or
had the arrest of some other 'pal' in some way thrown suspicion on
Jack? Be it as it might, the game was up. With the usual wisdom which
comes too late, Bob asked himself how he could ever have put trust in
Bartley, whom he knew to be as mean-spirited a cur as breathed. On the
chance of making things easier for himself, Jack w