te the money, Mr. Barraclough. Much better go home and be
reasonable."

He returned the note case to his pocket and stepped out of the queue.
A sudden inflammation of anger surged to his cheeks and his brows came
down hard and straight.

The individual who had spoken was apparently absorbed in a copy of
_Answers_.

"It is annoying, isn't it?" he remarked sweetly.

And then it was that Barraclough did a very stupid thing. He measured
the distance speculatively between his own fist and the man's jaw and
upper cut to the point as neatly as you could please. It happened so
quickly that the onlookers thought the man had fallen from sickness.
Barraclough was gone when they helped him to his feet. He was in a
taxi speeding out of the yard.

"Drive north as fast you can go," he had shouted.

A loafer, standing by the station gates, who had witnessed his hurried
entry into the cab, lounged in front as it was passing out. The driver
swore and slammed on his brakes but the loafer took his own time and
chances. The speed of the taxi fell almost to a walking pace. The
loafer caught the nearside canopy stay with his right hand and slung
his knee on to the projecting end of the rear wing. From there he
mounted to the roof of the cab, keeping his legs clear of the side
windows. It was quite a dexterous performance, and after all, what was
against it? The fare for two is the same as for one and the poor must
travel. So hugging his knees and smiling he sat on the battens of the
luggage rack and congratulated himself, while within Anthony
Barraclough was tapping with his foot and feeling very angry indeed.

And if you are interested to know why, here is the reason. The little
affair that occurred at St. Pancras booking office was a repetition of
seven similar incidents within the last twelve hours. By seven
different routes he had endeavoured to get out of London and in every
instance had been headed back. It had started with the affair on the
Croydon train and the woman who fainted in his arms. Then there was
the car on the Portsmouth road that had been crashed into by another at
the top of Kingston Hill. Victoria, Charing Cross, Waterloo and
Liverpool Street. It seemed to make no difference at all where he
tried, the result was always the same. The little contretemps at
Rotherhithe when he tried to board a tug was a sufficiently unpleasant
experience for one day. A man gets out of the habit of being shot over