This answer produced a vehement expostulation from my excitable neighbor, to which I paid little attention, being better engaged in reading the handbill.

It described the doctor’s personal appearance with remarkable accuracy, and cautioned persons in seaport towns to be on the lookout for him.  Old File, Young File, and myself were all dishonorably mentioned together in a second paragraph, as runaways of inferior importance Not a word was said in the handbill to show that the authorities at Barkingham even so much as suspected the direction in which any one of us had escaped.  This would have been very encouraging, but for the presence of the runner by my side, which looked as if Bow Street had its suspicions, however innocent Barkingham might be.

Could the doctor have directed his flight toward Crickgelly?  I trembled internally as the question suggested itself to me.  Surely he would prefer writing to Miss Giles to join him when he got to a safe place of refuge, rather than encumber himself with the young lady before he was well out of reach of the far-stretching arm of the law.  This seemed infinitely the most natural course of conduct.  Still, there was the runner traveling toward Wales—­and not certainly without a special motive.  I put the handbills in my pocket, and listened for any hints which might creep out in his talk; but he perversely kept silent.  The more my excitable neighbor tried to dispute with him, the more contemptuously he refused to break silence.  I began to feel vehemently impatient for our arrival at Shrewsbury; for there only could I hope to discover something more of my formidable fellow-traveler’s plans.

The coach stopped for dinner; and some of our passengers left us, the excitable man with the handbills among the number.  I got down, and stood on the doorstep of the inn, pretending to be looking about me, but in reality watching the movements of the runner.

Rather to my surprise, I saw him go to the door of the coach and speak to one of the inside passengers.  After a short conversation, of which I could not hear one word, the runner left the coach door and entered the inn, called for a glass of brandy and water, and took it out to his friend, who had not left the vehicle.  The friend bent forward to receive it at the window.  I caught a glimpse of his face, and felt my knees tremble under me—­it was Screw himself!

Screw, pale and haggard-looking, evidently not yet recovered from the effect of my grip on his throat!  Screw, in attendance on the runner, traveling inside the coach in the character of an invalid.  He must be going this journey to help the Bow Street officers to identify some one of our scattered gang of whom they were in pursuit.  It could not be the doctor—­the runner could discover him without assistance from anybody.  Why might it not be me?