es at
people, and passes policemen as unconcernedly as I do. The fact of the case
is that if I went to that bobby and pointed Burchill out, and told the
bobby who he is, all that bobby would say would be, 'Who are you a-kiddin'
of?'--or words to that equivalent. And so--still ahead he goes, and we
after him! And--where?"

Burchill evidently knew very well where he was going. He crossed Cromwell
Road, went up Queen's Road, turned into Queen's Gate Terrace, and
leisurely pursuing his way, proceeded to cut through various streets and
thoroughfares towards Kensington High Street. Always he looked forward;
never once did he turn nor seem to have any suspicion that he was being
followed. There was nothing here of the furtive slink, the frightened
slouch of the criminal escaped from justice; the man's entire bearing
was that of fearlessness; he strode across Kensington High Street in the
full glare of light before the Town Hall and under the noses of several
policemen.

Five minutes later Triffitt pulled himself and Trixie up with a gasp. The
chase had come to an end--for that moment, at any rate. Boldly, openly,
with absolute nonchalance, Burchill walked into a brilliantly-lighted
entrance of the Herapath Flats!

CHAPTER XXXII

THE YORKSHIRE PROVERB

In the course of Triffitt's brief and fairly glorious journalistic
career, he had enjoyed and suffered a few startling experiences. He had
been fastened up in the darker regions of a London sewer in flood,
wondering if he would ever breathe the fine air of Fleet Street again or
go down with the rats that scurried by him. He had been down a coal-mine
in the bad hour which follows an explosion. He had several times risked
his neck; his limbs had often been in danger; he had known what it was
to feel thumpings of the heart and catchings of the breath from sheer
fright. He had come face to face with surprise, with astonishment, with
audacious turnings of Fortune's glass. But never in all his life had he
been so surprised as he now was, and after one long, low whistle he
relieved his feelings by quoting verse:

"Is things what they seem?
Or is visions about?

"Trixie!" he went on in a low, concentrated voice. "This licks all! This
bangs Banagher! This--but words fail me, Trixie!"

"What is it, Herbert?" demanded Trixie anxiously. "What does it all
mean?"

"Ah!" responded Triffitt, wildly smiting the crown of his deerstalker.
"That's just it