whether anyone pursued i cannot say. i have some dim recollection, as i came out of the room, of women being huddled against the wall upon the landing, and of their screaming as i went past. but whether any effort was made to arrest my progress i cannot tell. my own impression is that not the slightest attempt to impede my headlong flight was made by anyone.

in what direction i was going i did not know. i was like a man flying through the phantasmagoric happenings of a dream, knowing neither how nor whither. i tore along what i suppose was a broad passage, through a door at the end into what, i fancy, was a drawing-room. across this room i dashed, helter-skelter, bringing down, in the gloom, unseen articles of furniture, with myself sometimes on top, and sometimes under them. in a trice, each time i fell, i was on my feet again,—until i went crashing against a window which was concealed by curtains. it would not have been strange had i crashed through it,—but i was spared that. thrusting aside the curtains, i fumbled for the fastening of the window. it was a tall french casement, extending, so far as i could judge, from floor to ceiling. when i had it open i stepped through it on to the verandah without,—to find that i was on the top of the portico which i had vainly essayed to ascend from below.

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.