The roadway in Sloane Street was churned into a brown mass like chocolate, but the last ’bus had rolled home and left it to freeze in peace.  Half-way up the street I saw Gervase meet and pass a policeman, and altered my own pace to a lagging walk.  Even so, the fellow eyed me suspiciously as I went by—­or so I thought:  and guessing that he kept a watch on me, I dropped still further behind my man.  But the lamps were bright at the end of the street, and I saw him turn to the right by the great drapery shop at the corner.

Once past this corner I was able to put on a spurt.  He crossed the roadway by the Albert Gate, and by the time he reached the Park railings the old distance separated us once more.  Half-way up the slope he came to a halt, by the stone drinking-trough:  and flattening myself against the railings, I saw him try the thin ice in the trough with his finger-tips, but in a hesitating way, as if his thoughts ran on something else and he scarcely knew what he did or why he did it.  It must have been half a minute before he recovered himself with a shrug of his shoulders, and plunging both hands deep in his pockets, resumed his pace.

As we passed Hyde Park Corner I glanced up at the clock there:  the time was between a quarter and ten minutes to one.  At the entrance of Down Street he turned aside again, and began to lead me a zigzag dance through the quiet thoroughfare:  and I followed, still to the tune of the “Wiener Blut.”

But now, at the corner of Charles Street, I blundered against another policeman, who flashed his lantern in my face, stared after Gervase, and asked me what my game was.  I demanded innocently enough to be shown the nearest way to Oxford Street, and the fellow, after pausing a moment to chew his suspicions, walked with me slowly to the south-west corner of Berkeley Square, and pointed northwards.

“That’s your road,” he growled, “straight on.  And don’t you forget it!”

He stood and watched me on my way.  Nor did I dare to turn aside until well clear of the square.  At the crossing of Davies and Grosvenor Streets, however, I supposed myself safe, and halted for a moment.

From the shadow of a porch at my elbow a thin voice accosted me.

“Kind gentleman—­”

“Heh?” I spun round on her sharply:  for it was a woman, stretching out one skinny hand and gathering her rags together with the other.

“Kind gentleman, spare a copper.  I’ve known better days—­I have indeed.”

“Well,” said I, “as it happens, I’m in the same case.  And they couldn’t be much worse, could they?”

She drew a shuddering breath back through her teeth, but still held out her hand.  I felt for my last coin, and her fingers closed on it so sharply that their long nails scraped the back of mine.

“Kind gentleman—­”

“Ay, they are kind, are they not?”

She stared at me, and in a nerveless tone let one horrible oath escape her.