Yet he was afraid.  Fear possed him—­this sneaking, torturing, emasculating passion that he had never known hitherto was now always with him.  He lay alone in the camp-bedstead sweating and funking.  The events of the day made him seem safe, but he felt that he would not be really safe for ages and ages.  Throughout the night he was going over the list of his idiotic mistakes, upbraiding himself, cursing himself for a hundred acts of brainless folly.  The plan had been sound enough:  it was the accomplishment of the plan that had been so damnably rotten.

Why had he changed his addresses in that preposterous fashion?  Instead of providing himself with useful materials for an alibi, he had just made a lot of inexplicable movements.  Then the pawning of the watch—­in a false name.  How could he ever explain that?  Anybody short of money may put his ticker up the spout, but no one has the right to assume an alias.  And the buying of the clothes and hat.  Instead of bargaining, as innocent people do, however small the price demanded, he just dabbed down the money.  He must have appeared to be in the devil’s own hurry to get the things and cut off with them.  The two men at that shop must have noticed his peculiarities as a customer.  They would be able to pick him out in the biggest crowd that ever assembled in a magistrate’s court.

But far worse had been his watchings and prowlings round and about the house in Grosvenor Place.  Could he have blundered upon anything more full of certain peril?  Why, to stand still for ten minutes in London is to invite the attention of the police.  Their very motto or watchword is “Move on;” and for every policeman in helmet and buttons there are three policemen in plain clothes to make sure that people are moving on.  While watching that house he had been watched himself.

Then, again, the insane episode of the eating-house—­the wild hastening of his program, the untimely change of appearance in that thronged room—­and his rudeness to the woman behind the counter.  With anguish he remembered, or fancied he remembered, that she had looked at him resentfully seeming to say as she studied his face.  “I’m sizing you up.  Yes, I won’t forget you—­you brute.”

His bag too—­left by him at Waterloo for a solid proof that he was not in London as he pretended.  The bag was at the cloak-room all right when he came to fetch it, but perhaps in the meantime it had been to Scotland Yard and back again.  Besides, Waterloo was a station he should never once have showed his nose in; the link between Waterloo and home was too close—­his own line—­the railway whose staff was replenished by people from his own part of the country.  While he was feeling glad that the passengers were strangers, perhaps a porter was saying to a mate:  “There goes the postmaster of Rodchurch.  He and I were boys together.  I should know him anywhere, though it’s ten years since I last saw William Dale.”  He ought to have used Paddington Station—­he could have got to Salisbury that way, and gone into the woods the way he came out of them.