eyond them, again, a plot of weedy ground, a few wretched
cottages, and the open, heathery moor. Good enough for running away, but
terribly bad for hiding.

I returned disconsolately to the inn. Walking along the passage toward
the staircase, I suddenly heard footsteps behind me--turned round, and
saw the Bow Street runner (clothed again in his ordinary costume, and
accompanied by two strange men) standing between me and the door.

"Sorry to stop you from going to Edinburgh, Mr. Softly," he said. "But
you're wanted back at Barkingham. I've just found out what you have been
traveling all the way to Scotland for; and I take you prisoner, as one
of the coining gang. Take it easy, sir. I've got help, you see; and you
can't throttle three men, whatever you may have done at Barkingham with
one."

He handcuffed me as he spoke. Resistance was hopeless. I could only make
an appeal to his mercy, on Alicia's account.

"Give me ten minutes," I said, "to break what has happened to my wife.
We were only married an hour ago. If she knows this suddenly, it may be
the death of her."

"You've led me a nice dance on a wrong scent," answered the runner,
sulkily. "But I never was a hard man where women are concerned. Go
upstairs, and leave the door open, so that I can see in through it if I
like. Hold your hat over your wrists, if you don't want her to see the
handcuffs."

I ascended the first flight of stairs, and my heart gave a sudden bound
as if it would burst. I stopped, speechless and helpless, at the sight
of Alicia, standing alone on the landing. My first look at her face told
me she had heard all that had passed in the passage. She passionately
struck the hat with which I had been trying to hide the handcuffs out
of my fingers, and clasped me in her arms with such sudden and desperate
energy that she absolutely hurt me.

"I was afraid of something, Frank," she whispered. "I followed you a
little way. I stopped here; I have heard everything. Don't let us be
parted! I am stronger than you think me. I won't be frightened. I won't
cry. I won't trouble anybody, if that man will only take me with you!"

It is best for my sake, if not for the reader's, to hurry over the scene
that followed.

It ended with as little additional wretchedness as could be expected.
The runner was resolute about keeping me handcuffed, and taking me
back, without a moment's unnecessary waste of time to Barkingham; but he
relented on other points.

W