My nervousness and indecision dropped from me at the news. I had won the first round, and I would win the last, for it suddenly became clear to me that I had now evidence which would blast Lumley. I believed that it would not be hard to prove his identity with Pavia and his receipt of the telegram from Saronov; Tuke was his creature, and Tuke's murderous mission was his doing. No doubt I knew little and could prove nothing about the big thing, the Power-House, but conspiracy¹ to murder is not the lightest of criminal charges. I was beginning to see my way to checkmating my friend, at least so far as Pitt-Heron was concerned. Provided—and it was a pretty big proviso—that he gave me the chance to use my knowledge.  
That I foresaw, was going to be the difficulty. What I knew now Lumley had known hours before. The reason of the affair at Antioch Street was now only too clear. If he believed that I had damning evidence against him—and there was no doubt he suspected it—then he would do his best to stop my mouth. I must get my statement lodged² in the proper quarter at the earliest possible moment.
 
The next twenty-four hours, I feared, were going to be too sensational³ for comfort. And yet I cannot say that I was afraid. I was too full of pride to be in a funk. I had lost my awe⁴ of Lumley through scoring a point against him. Had I known more I should have been less at my ease. It was this confidence which prevented me doing the obvious safe thing—ringing up Macgillivray, telling him the gist⁵ of my story, and getting him to put me under police protection. I thought I was clever enough to see the thing through myself. And it must have been the same over-confidence which prevented Lumley getting at me that night. An organisation⁶ like his could easily have got into the flat and done for us both. I suppose the explanation is that he did not yet know how much I knew and was not yet ready to take the last steps in silencing me.
 
I sat up till the small hours, marshalling my evidence in a formal statement and making two copies of it. One was destined⁷ for Macgillivray and the other for Felix, for I was taking no risks. I went to bed and slept peacefully and was awakened⁸ as usual by Waters. My man slept out, and used to turn up in the morning about seven. It was all so normal and homely⁹ that I could have believed my adventures of the night before a dream. In the summer sunlight the ways of darkness seemed very distant. I dressed in excellent spirits and made a hearty¹⁰ breakfast.
 
Then I gave the docile¹¹ Chapman his instructions. He must take the document to Scotland Yard, ask to see Macgillivray, and put it into his hands. Then he must ring me up at once at Down Street and tell me that he had done this. I had already telephoned to my clerk that I would not be at the Temple that day.
 
It seems a simple thing to travel less than a mile in the most frequented part of London in broad daylight, and perform an easy act like carrying a letter; but I knew that Lumley's spies would be active, and would connect Chapman sufficiently¹² with me to think him worth following. In that case there might be an attempt at violence. I thought it my duty to tell him this, but he laughed me to scorn. He proposed to walk, and he begged to be shown the man who would meddle¹³ with him. Chapman after last night was prepared to take on all comers. He put my letter to Macgillivray in his inner pocket, buttoned his coat, crushed down his felt hat on his head, and defiantly¹⁴ set forth¹⁵.
 
I expected a message from him in half an hour, for he was a rapid walker. But the half hour passed, then the three-quarters, and nothing happened. At eleven I rang up Scotland Yard, but they had no news of him.
 
Then I became miserably¹⁶ anxious, for it was clear that some disaster had overtaken my messenger. My first impulse was to set out myself to look for him, but a moment's reflection convinced me that that would be playing into the enemy's hands. For an hour I wrestled¹⁷ with my impatience¹⁸, and then a few minutes after twelve I was rung up by St. Thomas's Hospital.
 
A young doctor spoke¹⁹, and said that Mr. Chapman had asked him to tell me what had happened. He had been run down by a motor-car at the corner of Whitehall—nothing serious—only a bad shake and some scalp wounds. In a day or so he would be able to leave.
 
Then he added what drove the blood from my heart. "Mr. Chapman personally wished me to tell you," he said, "that the letter has gone." I stammered²⁰ some reply asking his meaning. "He said he thinks," I was told, "that, while he was being assisted to his feet, his pocket was picked and a letter taken. He said you would know what he meant."
 
I knew only too well what he meant. Lumley had got my statement, and realised precisely²¹ how much I knew and what was the weight of evidence against him. Before he had only suspected, now he knew. He must know, too, that there would be a copy somewhere which I would try to deliver. It was going to be harder than I had fancied to get my news to the proper ears, and I had to anticipate the extreme of violence on the part of my opponents.
 
The thought of the peril²² restored my coolness. I locked the outer door of my flat, and telephoned to the garage where I kept my car, bidding Stagg call for me at two o'clock precisely. Then I lit a pipe and strove to banish²³ the whole business from my thoughts, for fussing would do me no good.
 
Presently it occurred to me to ring up Felix and give him some notion of the position. But I found that my telephone was now broken and connection was impossible. The spoken as well as the written word was to be denied me. That had happened in the last half hour and I didn't believe it was by accident. Also my man Waters, whom I had sent out on an errand after breakfast, had never returned. The state of siege had begun.
 
It was a blazing hot midsummer day. The water-carts were sprinkling Piccadilly, and looking from my window I could see leisurely²⁴ and elegant gentlemen taking their morning stroll. A florist's cart full of roses stood below me in the street. The summer smell of town—a mixture of tar²⁵, flowers, dust and patchouli—rose in gusts²⁶ through the hot air. It was the homely London I knew so well, and I was somehow an exile from it. I was being shepherded into a dismal²⁷ isolation²⁸, which, unless I won help, might mean death. I was cool enough now, but I will not deny that I was miserably anxious. I cursed my false confidence the night before. By now I might have had Macgillivray and his men by my side. As it was I wondered if I should ever see them.
 
I changed into a flannel²⁹ suit, lunched off sandwiches and a whisky and soda³⁰, and at two o'clock looked for Stagg and my car. He was five minutes late, a thing which had never happened before. But I never welcomed anything so gladly as the sight of that car. I had hardly dared to hope that it would reach me.
 
My goal was the Embassy in Belgrave Square, but I was convinced that if I approached it directly I should share the fate of Chapman. Worse, for from me they would not merely snatch the letter. What I had once written I could write again, and if they wished to ensure my silence it must be by more drastic methods. I proposed to baffle my pursuers by taking a wide circuit round the western suburbs of London, returning to the Embassy when I thought the coast clear.
 
It was a tremendous relief to go down the stairs and emerge into the hot daylight. I gave Stagg his instructions, and lay back in the closed car with a curious fluttering sense of anticipation³¹. I had begun the last round in the wild game. There was a man at the corner of Down Street who seemed to peer curiously³² at the car. He was doubtless one of my watchers.
 
We went up Park Lane into the Edgeware Road, my instructions to Stagg being to make a circuit by Harrow and Brentford. Now that I was ensconced in my car I felt a trifle safer, and my tense nerves relaxed. I grew drowsy³³ and allowed myself to sink into a half doze³⁴. The stolid³⁵ back of Stagg filled my gaze, as it had filled it a fortnight ago on the western road, and I admired lazily the brick-red of his neck. He had been in the Guards, and a Boer bullet at Modder River had left a long scar at the nape of his neck, which gave to his hair the appearance of being badly cut. He had told me the story on Exmoor.
 
Suddenly I rubbed my eyes. There was no scar there; the hair of the chauffeur³⁶ grew regularly down to his coat-collar. The resemblance had been perfect, the voice was Stagg's, but clearly it was not Stagg who now drove my car.
 
I pulled the blind down over the front window as if to shelter myself from the sun. Looking out I saw that we were some distance up the Edgeware Road, nearing the point where the Marylebone Road joins it. Now or never was my chance, for at the corner there is always a block in the traffic.
 
The car slowed down in obedience³⁷ to a policeman's uplifted hand, and very gently I opened the door on the left side. Since the car was new it opened softly, and in two seconds I had stepped out, shut it again, and made a dive between a butcher's cart and a motor-bus for the side-walk. I gave one glance back and saw the unconscious chauffeur still rigid³⁸ at the wheel.
 
I dodged³⁹ unobtrusively through the crowd on the pavement, with my hand on my breast-pocket to see that my paper was still there. There was a little picture-shop near by to which I used to go occasionally, owned by a man who was an adept⁴⁰ at cleaning and restoring. I had sent him customers and he was likely to prove a friend. So I dived into his doorway⁴¹, which made a cool pit of shade after the glaring street, and found him, spectacles on nose, busy examining some dusty prints.
 
He greeted me cordially and followed me into the back shop.
 
"Mr. Levison," I said, "have you a back door?"
 
He looked at me in some surprise. "Why, yes; there is the door into the lane which runs from Edgeley Street into Connaught Mews."
 
"Will you let me use it? There is a friend outside whom I wish to avoid. Such things happen, you know."
 
He smiled comprehendingly. "Certainly, sir. Come this way," and he led me through a dark passage hung with dingy⁴² Old Masters to a little yard filled with the debris⁴³ of picture frames. There he unlocked a door in the wall and I found myself in a narrow alley⁴⁴. As I emerged I heard the bell of the shop-door ring. "If any one inquires, you have not seen me here, remember," I said, and Mr. Levison nodded. He was an artist in his small way and liked the scent⁴⁵ of a mystery.
 
I ran down the lane and by various cross streets made my way into Bayswater. I believed that I had thrown my trackers for the moment off the scent, but I had got to get to the Embassy, and that neighbourhood was sure to be closely watched. I came out on the Bayswater Road pretty far west, and resolved to strike south-east across the Park. My reason was that the neighbourhood of Hyde Park Corner was at that time of day certain to be pretty well crowded, and I felt more security in a throng⁴⁶ than in the empty streets of Kensington. Now that I come to think of it, it was a rash thing to do, for since Lumley knew the full extent of my knowledge, he was likely to deal more violently with me than with Chapman, and the seclusion⁴⁷ of the Park offered him too good a chance.
 
I crossed the riding-track and struck over the open space where the Sunday demonstrations⁴⁸ are held. There was nothing there but nurses and perambulators, children at play, and dogs being exercised. Presently I reached Grosvenor Gate, where on the little green chairs well-dressed people were taking the air. I recognised several acquaintances and stopped for a moment to talk to one of them. Then I emerged in Park Lane and walked down it to Hamilton Place.
 
So far I thought I had not been followed, but now once more I had the indefinable but unerring sensation of being watched. I caught a man looking eagerly at me from the other side of the street, and it seemed to me that he made a sign to someone farther off. There was now less than a quarter of a mile between me and Belgrave Square, but I saw that it would be a hard course to cover.
 
Once in Piccadilly there could be no doubt about my watchers. Lumley was doing the thing in style this time. Last night it had only been a trial trip, but now the whole energies of the Power-House were on the job. The place was filled with the usual mid-season crowd, and I had to take off my hat several times. Up in the bow-window of the Bachelors' Club a young friend of mine was writing a letter and sipping⁴⁹ a long drink with an air of profound boredom⁵⁰. I would have given much for his ennui⁵¹, for my life at the moment was painfully exciting. I was alone in that great crowd, isolated⁵² and proscribed⁵³, and there was no help save in my own wits. If I spoke to a policeman he would think me drunk or mad, and yet I was on the edge of being made the victim of a far subtler crime than fell within the purview⁵⁴ of the Metropolitan⁵⁵ force.
 
Now I saw how thin is the protection of civilisation⁵⁶. An accident and a bogus ambulance—a false charge and a bogus arrest—there were a dozen ways of spiriting me out of this gay, bustling⁵⁷ world. I foresaw that, if I delayed, my nerve would break, so I boldly set off across the road.
 
I jolly nearly shared the fate of Chapman. A car which seemed about to draw up at a club door suddenly swerved⁵⁸ across the street, and I had to dash to an island to escape it. It was no occasion to hesitate, so, dodging⁵⁹ a bus and missing a motor bicycle by a hair's breadth, I rushed across the remaining distance and reached the railings of the Green Park.
 
Here there were fewer people, and several queer things began to happen. A little group of workmen with their tools were standing⁶⁰ by the kerb, and they suddenly moved towards me. A pavement artist, who looked like a cripple, scrambled⁶¹ to his feet and moved in the same direction. There was a policeman at the corner, and I saw a well-dressed man go up to him, say something and nod in my direction, and the policeman too began to move towards me.
 
I did not await them. I took to my heels and ran for my life down Grosvenor Place.
 
Long ago at Eton I had won the school mile, and at Oxford⁶² I was a second string for the quarter. But never at Eton or at Oxford did I run as I ran then. It was blisteringly hot, but I did not feel it, for my hands were clammy and my heart felt like a cold stone. I do not know how the pursuit got on, for I did not think of it. I did not reflect what kind of spectacle I must afford running like a thief in a London thoroughfare on a June afternoon. I only knew that my enemies were around and behind me, and that in front, a few hundred yards away, lay safety.
 
But even as I ran I had the sense to think out my movements, and to realise that the front door of the Embassy was impossible. For one thing it would be watched, and for another, before the solemn footmen opened it, my pursuers would be upon me. My only hope was the back door.
 
I twisted into the mews behind the north side of the Square, and as I turned I saw two men run up from the Square as if to cut me off. A whistle was blown and more men appeared—one entering from the far end of the mews, one darting⁶³ from a public-house door, and one sliding down a ladder from a stable-loft. This last was nearest me and tried to trip me, but I rejoice to say that a left-hander on the chin sent him sprawling⁶⁴ on the cobbles. I remembered that the Embassy was the fifth house from the end, and feverishly⁶⁵ I tried to count the houses by their backs. It is not so easy as it sounds, for the modern London householder studs his back premises⁶⁶ with excrescences which seem to melt into his neighbour's. In the end I had to make a guess at the door, which to my joy was unlocked. I rushed in and banged it behind me. I found myself in a stone passage, with on one side a door opening on a garage. There was a wooden staircase leading to an upper floor, and a glass door in front which opened into a large disused room full of boxes. Beyond were two doors, one of which was locked. The other abutted⁶⁷ on a steep iron stairway which obviously led to the lower regions of the house.
 
I ran down the stair—it was no more than a ladder—crossed a small courtyard, traversed a passage, and burst into the kitchen, where I confronted an astonished white-capped chef in the act of lifting a pot from the fire.
 
His face was red and wrathful, and I thought that he was going to fling the pot at my head. I had disturbed him in some delicate operation, and his artist's pride was outraged⁶⁸.
 
"Monsieur," I stammered in French, "I seek your pardon for my intrusion. There were circumstances which compelled me to enter this house by the back premises. I am an acquaintance of His Excellency, your patron, and an old friend of Monsieur Felix. I beg you of your kindness to direct me to Monsieur Felix's room, or to bid some one take me there."
 
My abject⁷⁰ apologies mollified him.
 
"It is a grave offence, monsieur," he said, "an unparalleled offence, to enter my kitchen at this hour. I fear you have irremediably spoiled the new casserole dish that I was endeavouring to compose."
 
I was ready to go on my knees to the offended artist.
 
"It grieves me indeed to have interfered⁷¹ with so rare an art, which I have often admired at His Excellency's table. But there is danger behind me and an urgent mission in front. Monsieur will forgive me? Necessity will, sometimes, overrule the finest sensibility."
 
He bowed to me and I bowed to him, and my pardon was assured.
 
Suddenly a door opened, another than that by which I had entered, and a man appeared whom I took to be a footman. He was struggling into his livery coat, but at the sight of me he dropped it. I thought I recognised the face as that of the man who had emerged from the public-house and tried to cut me off.
 
"'Ere, Mister Alphonse," he cried, "'elp me to collar this man. The police are after 'im."
 
"You forget, my friend," I said, "that an Embassy is privileged ground which the police can't enter. I desire to be taken before His Excellency."
 
"So that's yer game," he shouted. "But two can play at that. 'Ere, give me an 'and, moosoo, and we'll 'ave him in the street in a jiffy. There's two 'undred of the best in our pockets if we 'ands 'im over to them as wants 'im."
 
The cook looked puzzled and a little frightened.
 
"Will you allow them to outrage⁶⁹ your kitchen—an Embassy kitchen too—without your consent?" I said.
 
"What have you done?" he asked in French.
 
"Only what your patron will approve," I replied in the same tongue. "Messieurs les assassins have a grudge⁷² against me."
 
He still hesitated, while the young footman advanced on me. He was fingering something in his trousers pocket which I did not like.
 
Now was the time when, as they say in America, I should have got busy with my gun; but alas⁷³! I had no gun. I feared supports for the enemy, for the footman at the first sight of me had run back the way he had come, and I had heard a low whistle.
 
What might have happened I do not know, had not the god appeared from the machine in the person of Hewins, the butler.
 
"Hewins," I said, "you know me. I have often dined here, and you know that I am a friend of Monsieur Felix. I am on my way to see him on an urgent matter, and for various reasons I had to enter by Monsieur Alphonse's kitchen. Will you take me at once to Monsieur Felix?"
 
Hewins bowed, and on his imperturbable⁷⁴ face there appeared no sign of surprise. "This way, sir," was all he said.
 
As I followed him I saw the footman plucking nervously⁷⁵ at the something in his trousers-pocket. Lumley's agents apparently⁷⁶ had not always the courage to follow his instructions to the letter, for I made no doubt that the order had been to take me alive or dead.
 
I found Felix alone, and flung myself into an arm-chair. "My dear chap," I said, "take my advice and advise His Excellency to sack the red-haired footman."
 
From that moment I date that sense of mastery over a situation which drives out fear. I had been living for weeks under a dark pall⁷⁷ and suddenly the skies had lightened. I had found sanctuary⁷⁸. Whatever happened to me now the worst was past, for I had done my job.
 
Felix was looking at me curiously, for, jaded⁷⁹, scarlet⁸⁰, dishevelled, I was an odd figure for a London afternoon. "Things seem to have been marching fast with you," he said.
 
"They have, but I think the march is over. I want to ask several favours. First, here is a document which sets out certain facts. I shall ring up Macgillivray at Scotland Yard and ask him to come here at 9.30 this evening. When he comes I want you to give him this and ask him to read it at once. He will know how to act on it."
 
Felix nodded. "And the next?"
 
"Give me a telegraph form. I want a wire sent at once by someone who can be trusted." He handed me a form and I wrote out a telegram to Lumley at the Albany, saying that I proposed to call upon him that evening at 8 sharp, and asking him to receive me.
 
"Next?" said Felix.
 
"Next and last, I want a room with a door which will lock, a hot bath, and something to eat about seven. I might be permitted to taste Monsieur Alphonse's new casserole dish."
 
I rang up Macgillivray, reminded him of his promise, and told him what awaited him at 9.30. Then I had a wash, and afterwards at my leisure gave Felix a sketch⁸¹ of the day's doings. I have never felt more completely at my ease, for whatever happened I was certain that I had spoiled Lumley's game. He would know by now that I had reached the Embassy, and that any further attempts on my life and liberty were futile⁸². My telegram would show him that I was prepared to offer terms, and I would certainly be permitted to reach the Albany unmolested. To the meeting with my adversary⁸³ I looked forward without qualms⁸⁴, but with the most lively interest. I had my own theories about that distinguished⁸⁵ criminal, and I hoped to bring them to the proof.
 
Just before seven I had a reply to my wire. Mr. Lumley said he would be delighted to see me. The telegram was directed to me at the Embassy, though I had put no address on the one I sent. Lumley of course knew all my movements. I could picture him sitting in his chair, like some Chief of Staff, receiving every few minutes the reports of his agents. All the same Napoleon had fought his Waterloo.

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