doctor's personal appearance with remarkable accuracy,
and cautioned persons in seaport towns to be on the lookout for him. Old
File, Young File, and myself were all dishonorably mentioned together
in a second paragraph, as runaways of inferior importance Not a word was
said in the handbill to show that the authorities at Barkingham even so
much as suspected the direction in which any one of us had escaped. This
would have been very encouraging, but for the presence of the runner
by my side, which looked as if Bow Street had its suspicions, however
innocent Barkingham might be.

Could the doctor have directed his flight toward Crickgelly? I trembled
internally as the question suggested itself to me. Surely he would
prefer writing to Miss Giles to join him when he got to a safe place of
refuge, rather than encumber himself with the young lady before he was
well out of reach of the far-stretching arm of the law. This seemed
infinitely the most natural course of conduct. Still, there was the
runner traveling toward Wales--and not certainly without a special
motive. I put the handbills in my pocket, and listened for any hints
which might creep out in his talk; but he perversely kept silent.
The more my excitable neighbor tried to dispute with him, the more
contemptuously he refused to break silence. I began to feel vehemently
impatient for our arrival at Shrewsbury; for there only could I hope to
discover something more of my formidable fellow-traveler's plans.

The coach stopped for dinner; and some of our passengers left us, the
excitable man with the handbills among the number. I got down, and stood
on the doorstep of the inn, pretending to be looking about me, but in
reality watching the movements of the runner.

Rather to my surprise, I saw him go to the door of the coach and speak
to one of the inside passengers. After a short conversation, of which I
could not hear one word, the runner left the coach door and entered
the inn, called for a glass of brandy and water, and took it out to
his friend, who had not left the vehicle. The friend bent forward to
receive it at the window. I caught a glimpse of his face, and felt my
knees tremble under me--it was Screw himself!

Screw, pale and haggard-looking, evidently not yet recovered from the
effect of my grip on his throat! Screw, in attendance on the runner,
traveling inside the coach in the character of an invalid. He must be
going this journey to help the Bow Street o