had been so damnably
rotten.

Why had he changed his addresses in that preposterous fashion? Instead
of providing himself with useful materials for an alibi, he had just
made a lot of inexplicable movements. Then the pawning of the
watch--in a false name. How could he ever explain _that_? Anybody
short of money may put his ticker up the spout, but no one has the
right to assume an alias. And the buying of the clothes and hat.
Instead of bargaining, as innocent people do, however small the price
demanded, he just dabbed down the money. He must have appeared to be
in the devil's own hurry to get the things and cut off with them. The
two men at that shop must have noticed his peculiarities as a
customer. They would be able to pick him out in the biggest crowd that
ever assembled in a magistrate's court.

But far worse had been his watchings and prowlings round and about the
house in Grosvenor Place. Could he have blundered upon anything more
full of certain peril? Why, to stand still for ten minutes in London
is to invite the attention of the police. Their very motto or
watchword is "Move on;" and for every policeman in helmet and buttons
there are three policemen in plain clothes to make sure that people
_are_ moving on. While watching that house he had been watched
himself.

Then, again, the insane episode of the eating-house--the wild
hastening of his program, the untimely change of appearance in that
thronged room--and his rudeness to the woman behind the counter. With
anguish he remembered, or fancied he remembered, that she had looked
at him resentfully seeming to say as she studied his face. "I'm sizing
you up. Yes, I won't forget you--you brute."

His bag too--left by him at Waterloo for a solid proof that he was
_not_ in London as he pretended. The bag was at the cloak-room all
right when he came to fetch it, but perhaps in the meantime it had
been to Scotland Yard and back again. Besides, Waterloo was a station
he should never once have showed his nose in; the link between
Waterloo and home was too close--his own line--the railway whose staff
was replenished by people from his own part of the country. While he
was feeling glad that the passengers were strangers, perhaps a porter
was saying to a mate: "There goes the postmaster of Rodchurch. He and
I were boys together. I should know him anywhere, though it's ten
years since I last saw William Dale." He ought to have used Paddington
Station--he could have g