He was conscious of a need for reflection.  He longed to sit in some secluded spot in order to think.  At present, his brain was a mere whirligig, and all things about him seemingly danced to the same tune.  Stationary objects were become unstable in the eyes of Soames, and the solid earth, burst free of its moorings, no longer afforded him a safe foothold.  There was a humming in his ears; and a mist floated before his eyes.  By the time that the motor-’bus was come to the south side of the bridge, Soames had succeeded in slowing down his mental roundabout in some degree; and now he began grasping at the flying ideas which the diminishing violence of his brain storm enabled him, vaguely, to perceive.

The first fruits of his reflections were bitter.  He viewed the events of the night in truer focus; he saw that by his flight he had sealed his fate—­had voluntarily outlawed himself.  It became frightfully evident to him that he dared not seek to draw from his bank, that he dared not touch even his modest Post Office account.  With the exception of some twenty-five shillings in his pocket, he was penniless!

How could he hope to fly the country, or even to hide himself, without money?

He glanced suspiciously about the ’bus; for he perceived that an old instinct had prompted him to mount one which passed the Oval—­a former point of debarkation when he lived in rooms near Kennington Park.  Someone might recognize him!

Furtively, he scanned his fellow passengers, but perceived no acquaintance.

What should he do—­where should he go?  It was a desperate situation.

The inspector who had cared to study that furtive, isolated figure, could not have failed to mark it for that of a hunted man.

At Kennington Gate the ’bus made a halt.  Soames glanced at the clock on the corner.  It was close upon one A. M. Where in heaven’s name should he go?  What a fool he had been to come to this district where he was known!

Stay!  There was one man in London, surely, who must be almost as keenly interested in the fate of Luke Soames as Luke Soames himself ...  Gianapolis!

Soames sprang up and hurried off the ’bus.  No public telephone box would be available at that hour, but dire need spurred his slow mind and also lent him assurance.  He entered the office of the taxicab depot on the next corner, and, from the man whom he found in charge, solicited and obtained the favor of using the telephone.  Lifting the receiver, he asked for East 18642.

The seconds that elapsed, now, were as hours of deathly suspense to the man at the telephone.  If the number should be engaged!...  If the exchange could get no reply!...

“Hullo!” said a nasal voice—­“who is it?”

“It is Soames—­and I want to speak to Mr. King!”

He lowered his tone as much as possible, almost whispering his own name.  He knew the voice which had answered him; it was the same that he always heard when ringing up East 18642.  But would Gianapolis come to the telephone?  Suddenly—­