him nearly to a standstill, and under the regulations he had passed through the station at ten miles an hour.  These were the only occasions, however, on which he had slackened speed at all.  The train attendant, who was a nervous man, began to shiver again and imagine unmentionable things.  The guard, who had never left his own brake, went home and dreamed that his effigy had been added to the collection of Madame Tussaud.  The reporters were the only people who were really happy, with the exception, perhaps of Inspector Jacks, who had a weakness for a difficult case.

Fifteen miles north of London, a man lay by the roadside in the shadow of a plantation of pine trees, through which he had staggered only a few minutes ago.  His clothes were covered with dust, he had lost his cap, and his trousers were cut about the knee as though from a fall.  He was of somewhat less than medium height, dark, slender, with delicate features, and hair almost coal black.  His face, as he moved slowly from side to side upon the grass, was livid with pain.  Every now and then he raised himself and listened.  The long belt of main road, which passed within a few feet of him, seemed almost deserted.  Once a cart came lumbering by, and the man who lay there, watching, drew closely back into the shadows.  A youth on a bicycle passed, singing to himself.  A boy and girl strolled by, arm in arm, happy, apparently, in their profound silence.  Only a couple of fields away shone the red and green lights of the railway track.  Every few minutes the goods-trains went rumbling over the metals.  The man on the ground heard them with a shiver.  Resolutely he kept his face turned in the opposite direction.  The night mail went thundering northward, and he clutched even at the nettles which grew amongst the grass where he was crouching, as though filled with a sudden terror.  Then there was silence once more—­silence which became deeper as the hour approached midnight.  Passers-by were fewer; the birds and animals came out from their hiding places.  A rabbit scurried across the road; a rat darted down the tiny stream.  Now and then birds moved in the undergrowth, and the man, who was struggling all the time with a deadly faintness, felt the silence grow more and more oppressive.  He began even to wonder where he was.  He closed his eyes.  Was that really the tinkling of a guitar, the perfume of almond and cherry blossom, floating to him down the warm wind?  He began to lose himself in dreams until he realized that actual unconsciousness was close upon him.  Then he set his teeth tight and clenched his hands.  Away in the distance a faint, long-expected sound came travelling to his ears.  At last, then, his long wait was over.  Two fiery eyes were stealing along the lonely road.  The throb of an engine was plainly audible.  He staggered up, swaying a little on his feet, and holding out his hands.  The motor car came to a standstill before him, and the man who was driving it sprang to the ground.  Words passed between them rapidly,—­questions and answers,—­the questions of an affectionate servant, and the answers of a man fighting a grim battle for consciousness.  But these two spoke in a language of their own, a language which no one who passed along that road was likely to understand.