ow could he run away and
hide himself at such a time? Even if I set my own anxiety aside, just
think to what serious misapprehension it laid him open!

I sent out for the morning papers. They were full of Harold. Rumours,
rumours, rumours! Mr. Tillington had deliberately chosen to put himself
in the wrong by disappearing mysteriously at the last moment. He had
only himself to blame if the worst interpretation were put upon his
action. But the police were on his track; Scotland Yard had 'a clue': it
was confidently expected an arrest would be made before evening at
latest. As to details, authorities differed. The officials of the Great
Western Railway at Paddington were convinced that Mr. Tillington had
started, alone and undisguised, by the night express for Exeter. The
South-Eastern inspectors at Charing Cross, on the other hand, were
equally certain that he had slipped away with a false beard, in company
with his 'accomplice' Higginson, by the 8.15 P.M. to Paris. Everybody
took it for granted, however, that he had left London.

Conjecture played with various ultimate destinations--Spain, Morocco,
Sicily, the Argentine. In Italy, said the _Chronicle_, he might lurk for
a while--he spoke Italian fluently, and could manage to put up at tiny
_osterie_ in out-of-the-way places seldom visited by Englishmen. He
might try Albania, said the _Morning Post_, airing its exclusive
'society' information: he had often hunted there, and might in turn be
hunted. He would probably attempt to slink away to some remote spot in
the Carpathians or the Balkans, said the _Daily News_, quite proud of
its geography. Still, wherever he went, leaden-footed justice in this
age, said the _Times_, must surely overtake him. The day of universal
extradition had dawned; we had no more Alsatias: even the Argentine
itself gives up its rogues--at last; not an asylum for crime remains in
Europe, not a refuge in Asia, Africa, America, Australia, or the Pacific
Islands.

I noted with a shudder of horror that all the papers alike took his
guilt as certain. In spite of a few decent pretences at not prejudging
an untried cause, they treated him already as the detected criminal, the
fugitive from justice. I sat in my little sitting-room at the hotel in
Jermyn Street, a limp rag, looking idly out of the window with swimming
eyes, and waiting for Lady Georgina. It was early, too early, but--oh,
why didn't she come! Unless _somebody_ soon sympathised with me, my