he went to bed, remained
bathing his injured face, or holding up books in a vain attempt to
read, until dawn. Throughout that vigil he had a curious persuasion
that Mr. Bessel was endeavouring to speak to him, but he would not let
himself attend to any such belief.

About dawn, his physical fatigue asserted itself, and he went to bed
and slept at last in spite of dreaming. He rose late, unrested and
anxious, and in considerable facial pain. The morning papers had no
news of Mr. Bessel's aberration--it had come too late for them. Mr.
Vincey's perplexities, to which the fever of his bruise added fresh
irritation, became at last intolerable, and, after a fruitless visit to
the Albany, he went down to St. Paul's Churchyard to Mr. Hart, Mr.
Bessel's partner, and, so far as Mr. Vincey knew, his nearest friend.

He was surprised to learn that Mr. Hart, although he knew nothing of
the outbreak, had also been disturbed by a vision, the very vision that
Mr. Vincey had seen--Mr. Bessel, white and dishevelled, pleading
earnestly by his gestures for help. That was his impression of the
import of his signs. "I was just going to look him up in the Albany
when you arrived," said Mr. Hart. "I was so sure of something being
wrong with him."

As the outcome of their consultation the two gentlemen decided to
inquire at Scotland Yard for news of their missing friend. "He is
bound to be laid by the heels," said Mr. Hart. "He can't go on at that
pace for long." But the police authorities had not laid Mr. Bessel by
the heels. They confirmed Mr. Vincey's overnight experiences and added
fresh circumstances, some of an even graver character than those he
knew--a list of smashed glass along the upper half of Tottenham Court
Road, an attack upon a policeman in Hampstead Road, and an atrocious
assault upon a woman. All these outrages were committed between
half-past twelve and a quarter to two in the morning, and between those
hours--and, indeed, from the very moment of Mr. Bessel's first rush
from his rooms at half-past nine in the evening--they could trace the
deepening violence of his fantastic career. For the last hour, at
least from before one, that is, until a quarter to two, he had run
amuck through London, eluding with amazing agility every effort to stop
or capture him.

But after a quarter to two he had vanished. Up to that hour witnesses
were multitudinous. Dozens of people had seen him, fled from him or
pursued him, a