ng garments, I felt it
would not be safe to surrender myself to the police. The thing that
puzzled me was why no attempt was made to arrest me, since there was no
question as to the suspicion which followed me, like an inseparable
shadow, wherever I went. Stares, nudgings, whisperings, and even
loud-spoken remarks of 'that's 'im' greeted my every appearance, and the
meanest and most deserted eating-house that I patronised soon became
filled with a crowd of furtively watching customers. I began to
sympathise with the feeling of Royal personages trying to do a little
private shopping under the unsparing scrutiny of an irrepressible public.
And still, with all this inarticulate shadowing, which weighed on my
nerves almost worse than open hostility would have done, no attempt was
made to interfere with my liberty. Later on I discovered the reason. At
the time of the murder on the lonely highway a series of important
bloodhound trials had been taking place in the near neighbourhood, and
some dozen and a half couples of trained animals had been put on the
track of the supposed murderer--on my track. One of our most
public-spirited London dailies had offered a princely prize to the owner
of the pair that should first track me down, and betting on the chances
of the respective competitors became rife throughout the land. The dogs
ranged far and wide over about thirteen counties, and though my own
movements had become by this time perfectly well-known to police and
public alike, the sporting instincts of the nation stepped in to prevent
my premature arrest. "Give the dogs a chance," was the prevailing
sentiment, whenever some ambitious local constable wished to put an end
to my drawn-out evasion of justice. My final capture by the winning pair
was not a very dramatic episode, in fact, I'm not sure that they would
have taken any notice of me if I hadn't spoken to them and patted them,
but the event gave rise to an extraordinary amount of partisan
excitement. The owner of the pair who were next nearest up at the finish
was an American, and he lodged a protest on the ground that an otterhound
had married into the family of the winning pair six generations ago, and
that the prize had been offered to the first pair of bloodhounds to
capture the murderer, and that a dog that had 1/64th part of otterhound
blood in it couldn't technically be considered a bloodhound. I forget
how the matter was ultimately settled, but it aroused