own warder's clothes, didn't he, and just walked
over the course? What's become of your man he knocked on the head with
his leg-iron?"

"Oh--him? He's got his pension, you know. But he's not good for any sort
of work. He's alive--that's all! Yes--when Mr. Wix pays his next visit
at the Old Bailey, there'll be several charges against him. He'll make a
good show. I'll give him three months." By which he meant that, with all
allowances made for detention and trial, Mr. Wix would end his career at
the time stated. He went on to refer to other incidents of which the
story has cognisance. He had been inclined to be down on his old chief
Ibbetson, who was drowned in his attempt to capture Wix, because he had
availed himself of a helping hand held out to him to drag its owner into
custody. Well--he would think so still if it had not been for some
delicate shades of character Mr. Wix had revealed since. How did he,
Simeon Rowe, know what Ibbetson knew against the ex-convict? Some
Walthamstow business, as like as not! It was wonderful what a faculty
this man had for slipping through your fingers. He had been all but
caught by one of our men, in the country, only the other day. He was at
the railway-station waiting for the up-train, due in a quarter of an
hour, and he saw our man driving up in a gig. At this point Mr. Rowe
stopped, looking amused.

"Did he run?" said Mr. Jerry.

"Not he! He made a mistake in his train. Jumped into the Manchester
express that was just leaving, and got carried off before our man
reached the station. At Manchester he explained his mistake, and used
his return ticket without extra charge to come back to London. Our man
knew he would do that, and waited for him at Euston. But _he_ knew one
better. Missed his train again at Harrow--just got out for a minute, you
know, when it stopped--and walked the rest of the way!"

Ralph Daverill must have had a curious insight into human nature, to
know by the amount of his inspection of that police-officer--the one who
had ridden after him from Grantley Thorpe--whether he would pursue him
to Manchester or try to capture him at Euston. How could he tell that
the officer was not clever enough to know exactly how clever his quarry
would decide he was?

* * * * *

Aunt M'riar, haunted always by a nightmare--by the terrible dream of a
scaffold, and on it the man who had been her husband, with all the
attendant horrors familiar to an