I tried the road down which I had tried up,—­proceeding with a breakneck recklessness of which now I shudder to think.  It was, probably, some thirty feet above the pavement, yet I rushed at the descent with as much disregard for the safety of life and limb as if it had been only three.  Over the edge of the parapet I went, obtaining, with my naked feet, a precarious foothold on the latticework,—­then down I commenced to scramble.  I never did get a proper hold, and when I had descended, perhaps, rather more than half the distance—­scraping, as it seemed to me, every scrap of skin off my body in the process—­I lost what little hold I had.  Down to the bottom I went tumbling, rolling right across the pavement into the muddy road.  It was a miracle I was not seriously injured,—­but in that sense, certainly, that night the miracles were on my side.  Hardly was I down, than I was up again,—­mud and all.

Just as I was getting on to my feet I felt a firm hand grip me by the shoulder.  Turning I found myself confronted by a tall, slenderly built man, with a long, drooping moustache, and an overcoat buttoned up to the chin, who held me with a grasp of steel.  He looked at me,—­and I looked back at him.

‘After the ball,—­eh?’

Even then I was struck by something pleasant in his voice, and some quality as of sunshine in his handsome face.

Seeing that I said nothing he went on,—­with a curious, half mocking smile.

’Is that the way to come slithering down the Apostle’s pillar?—­Is it simple burglary, or simpler murder?—­Tell me the glad tidings that you’ve killed St Paul, and I’ll let you go.’

Whether he was mad or not I cannot say,—­there was some excuse for thinking so.  He did not look mad, though his words and actions alike were strange.

’Although you have confined yourself to gentle felony, shall I not shower blessings on the head of him who has been robbing Paul?—­ Away with you!’

He removed his grip, giving me a gentle push as he did so,—­and I was away.  I neither stayed nor paused.

I knew little of records, but if anyone has made a better record than I did that night between Lowndes Square and Walham Green I should like to know just what it was,—­I should, too, like to have seen it done.

In an incredibly short space of time I was once more in front of the house with the open window,—­the packet of letters—­which were like to have cost me so dear!—­gripped tightly in my hand.

CHAPTER IX

THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKET

I pulled up sharply,—­as if a brake had been suddenly, and even mercilessly, applied to bring me to a standstill.  In front of the window I stood shivering.  A shower had recently commenced,—­the falling rain was being blown before the breeze.  I was in a terrible sweat,—­yet tremulous as with cold; covered with mud; bruised, and cut, and bleeding,—­as piteous an object as you would care to see.  Every limb in my body ached; every muscle was exhausted; mentally and physically I was done; had I not been held up, willy nilly, by the spell which was upon me, I should have sunk down, then and there, in a hopeless, helpless, hapless heap.