My chase had begun.  I had before me plenty of time in which to reach Paddington, and the exercise of walking did me good, relaxing my stiffened limbs until at length I scarcely felt the pain of the weals where the cords had cut me.  It was snowing persistently, but I hardly noticed it.  Through the chill and sullen morning I held doggedly on my way, past St. Katharine’s Wharf, the Tower, through Gracechurch Street, and out into St. Paul’s Churchyard.  Traffic was already beginning here, and thickened as I passed down Ludgate Hill and climbed up to Holborn.  Already the white snow was being churned and trodden into hideous slush in which my feet slipped and stumbled.  My coat and sailor’s cap were covered with powdery flakes, and I had to hold my head down for fear lest the drifting moisture should wash any of the colouring off my face.  So my feet carried me once more into Oxford Street.  How well remembered was every house, every lamp-post, every flag of the pavement almost!  I was on my last quest now.

“To-night! to-night!” whispered my heart:  then came back the words of Claire’s mother—­“Kill him!  Kill him!” and still I tramped westward, as westward lay my revenge.

Suddenly a hansom cab shot past me.  It came up silently on the slushy street, and it was only when it was close behind that I heard the muffled sound of its wheels.  It was early yet for cabs, so that I turned my head at the sound.  It passed in a flash, and gave me but a glimpse of the occupant:  but in that moment I had time to catch sight of a pair of eyes, and knew now that my journey would not be in vain.  They were the eyes of Simon Colliver.

So then in Oxford Street, after all, I had met him.  He was cleverly disguised—­as I guessed, by the same hands that had painted my own face—­and looked to the casual eye but an ordinary bagman.  But art could not change those marvellous eyes, and I knew him in an instant.  My heart leapt wildly for a moment—­my hands were clenched and my teeth shut tight; but the next, I was plodding after him as before.  I could wait now.

Before I reached Paddington I met the cab returning empty, and on gaining the station at first saw nothing of my man.  Though as yet it was early, the platform was already crowded with holiday-makers:  a few country dames laden with countless bundles, careworn workers preparing to spend Christmas with friends or parents in their village home, a sprinkling of schoolboys chafing at the slowness of the clock.  After a minute or so, I spied Simon Colliver moving among this happy and innocent crowd like an evil spirit.  I flung myself down upon a bench, and under pretence of sleeping, quietly observed him.  Once or twice, as he passed to and fro before me, he almost brushed my knee, so close was he—­so close that I had to clutch the bench tightly for fear I should leap up and throttle him.  He did not notice me.  Doubtless he thought me already tossing out to sea with the gulls swooping over me, and the waves merrily dashing over my dead face.  The waiting game had changed hands now.