“There’ll be one less before morning,” said I, “if that’s any consolation to you.  Good night!” Setting off at a shuffling run, I doubled back along Grosvenor Street and Bond Street to the point where I hoped to pick up the trail again.  And just there, at the issue of Bruton Street, two constables stood ready for me.

“I thought as much,” said the one who set me on my way.  “Hi, you!  Wait a moment, please;” then to the other, “Best turn his pockets out, Jim.”

“If you dare to try—­” I began, with my hand in my pocket:  the next moment I found myself sprawling face downward on the sharp crust of snow.

“Hullo, constables!” said a voice.  “What’s the row?” It was Gervase.  He had turned leisurely back from the slope of Conduit Street, and came strolling down the road with his hands in his pockets.

“This fellow, Sir—­we have reason to think he was followin’ you.”

“Quite right,” Gervase answered cheerfully, “of course he was.”

“Oh, if you knew it, Sir—­”

“Certainly I knew it.  In fact, he was following at my invitation.”

“What for did he tell me a lie, then?” grumbled the constable, chapfallen.

I had picked myself up by this time and was wiping my face.  “Look here,” I put in, “I asked you the way to Oxford Street, that and nothing else.”  And I went on to summarise my opinion of him.

“Oh! it’s you can swear a bit,” he growled.  “I heard you just now.”

“Yes,” Gervase interposed suavely, drawing the glove from his right hand and letting flash a diamond finger-ring in the lamp-light.  “He is a bit of a beast, policeman, and it’s not for the pleasure of it that I want his company.”

A sovereign passed from hand to hand.  The other constable had discreetly drawn off a pace or two.

“All the same, it’s a rum go.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Gervase assented in his heartiest tone.  “Here is my card, in case you’re not satisfied.”

“If you’re satisfied, Sir—­”

“Quite so.  Good night!” Gervase thrust both hands into his pockets again and strode off.  I followed him, with a heart hotter than ever—­ followed him like a whipped cur, as they say.  Yes, that was just it.  He who had already robbed me of everything else had now kicked even the pedestal from under me as a figure of tragedy.  Five minutes ago I had been the implacable avenger tracking my unconscious victim across the city.  Heaven knows how small an excuse it was for self-respect; but one who has lost character may yet chance to catch a dignity from circumstances; and to tell the truth, for all my desperate earnestness I had allowed my vanity to take some artistic satisfaction in the sinister chase.  It had struck me—­shall I say?—­as an effective ending, nor had I failed to note that the snow lent it a romantic touch.