Across the square, a fat little man was making strenuous efforts to remove the shutter from in front of his shop.  He looked round as Douglas appeared, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, and regarded him doubtfully.

“Will yer lend us a hand, guvnor?” he inquired.

Douglas was willing enough, and between them the job was soon finished.  The little man, who was a confectioner, explained that he had an assistant who came from a distance, and whose laziness was most phenomenal.  After this morning, however, his services would be dispensed with.  For once he had gone a little too far.  Eight o’clock and no sign of him.  It was monstrous!  The little man produced a few coppers and glanced towards Douglas with some hesitation.

Douglas laughed softly.

“I don’t want any money, thanks,” he said, “but if I could beg a piece of bread or cake, I’m really hungry.”

The little man nodded and hastened into the shop.  Douglas followed him.

“If you’d care for a cup of milk,” he remarked, taking a tin from the door handle, “we can manage it.  No tea yet, I’m afraid.”

“I should enjoy the milk very much if you can spare it.”

He made a curious meal.  A little hysterical, but stronger at every mouthful.  The little man watched him covertly.

“Like a wash?” he inquired.

“Rather,” Douglas answered.  After all, it was a good start for the day.

He walked out of the shop a quarter of an hour later a new man, spruce and clean, smoking a cigarette, and with the terrors of the night far behind him.  The cold water had been like a sweet, keen tonic to him.  The cobwebs had gone from his brain.  Memory had returned.  What a fool he had been.  There was no such person as Douglas Guest.  Douglas Guest was dead.  What need for him to fear?

The greatest desire he had now was for a morning newspaper, but though he tried every pocket several times over he was absolutely penniless.  Then he thought of the Free Libraries—­a sudden and delightful inspiration.  A policeman directed him.  He entered a handsome building, and being early had his choice of the great dailies, neatly cut and arranged upon rollers for him.  One by one he read them through with feverish interest, and when he set them down he laughed softly to himself.  There was not one of them which did not chronicle the death of Douglas Guest on the Midland Express, and refer to him as the person wanted for the Feldwick murder.  So he was safe, after all.  The press had made it clearer than ever.  Douglas Guest was dead.  Henceforth he need have no fear.