The train arrived at Euston at half-past eight in the morning. It marked an epoch in my fate. Though I showed in my manner neither haste nor hesitation, it was with apprehension that I alighted from the carriage, with relief that I walked through the gates, a free man!

The snow was falling in London as in Liverpool, but not so heavily, and the wind was less fierce. The weather was dreary enough, and I was in wretched spirits, uncertain what to do and where to go. But in order that my movements should not attract observation it was imperative that my uncertainty should not be apparent; I must act with an appearance of decision.

Being now in a locality with which I was familiar, I made my way to a thoroughfare where cheap clothes' shops abounded, and at one of these, the shutters of which had just been taken down, I purchased a suit of clothes, an overcoat, and a shirt, without trying them on, and a Gladstone bag in which I directed them to be packed. Hailing a cab I drove to a Turkish bath in Euston Road, and, bathing there, changed my clothes, as is not infrequently done in such establishments. I then drove to an hotel, where I engaged a room, informing the manager that my stay would depend upon letters which I expected to receive. Then I breakfasted, scarcely realizing until I sat down how sorely I was in need of food. Refreshed by the meal I retired to my room, where, locking the door, like a criminal engaged in a desperate endeavor to escape justice, I bent my thoughts again upon the perilous situation into which I had been plunged. Well did I know that it was a subject which would never leave me.

The motive for Louis' attack upon my life. Let me first fix that definitely. I could think of no other than that of obtaining possession of the few thousands of pounds which, through Barbara's death, reverted back to me. My own death proved—whether by natural means or murder mattered not—and leaving (as was rightly presumed) no will, my property would fall to my half-brother Louis and his mother, as next-of-kin. Undoubtedly this was the motive; but in what way information had been obtained of my arrival from Australia, and by whom I had been tracked from the Liverpool dock to the deserted street, it was not in my power to fathom.

Did Louis have an accomplice? If so, who more likely than Maxwell? The conjecture was natural, but I soon dismissed it. Two men would have made short work of me. Revenge and greed would have chained Maxwell to Louis' side, and I should not now be alive and comparatively uninjured. There had been blood on my face and hands, but it had not come from me—a proof that I had not, as I supposed, been attacked with a knife. The only weapon used in the struggle was used by me, and it had only to be established as belonging to me to serve as fatal evidence against me. And yet it was strange that in an attack deliberately premeditated and thought out, my assailant should have had no weapon at his command. There was, however, no certainty of this. Knowing; that I was a powerful man he would hardly have trusted to his own physical strength to overcome me. The reasonable presumption was that he had a weapon, which he had either been unable to draw or had dropped in the scuffle. I adopted these conclusions as facts beyond dispute. He had no accomplices, he had a weapon. The former fact added to my chances of safety, for having confided his savage purpose to no one, the secret was confined to his own breast. And he died without revealing it.

For the deed itself I did not, I could not, hold myself any more responsible than if I had been attacked by a wild beast. Discovered, I must bear the consequences, but I was justified in keeping it secret, and in leaving to others the task of detection. And, indeed, it was now too late for me to take the initiative. My flight and the property in my possession were sufficient proofs of guilt. Innocent (it would be argued), what had I to fear? Justice never errs—never! What mockery! Being guilty, I had done what all guilty men do. What could be clearer?

I was now afflicted with the doubt whether I had acted wisely in adopting a policy of concealment. It is in the nature of such a labyrinth of circumstance as that in which I was wandering never to be sure of the road, to be ever in doubt whether the right track has not been hopelessly missed. There are no sadder reflections than those inspired by what is and what might have been. Lost moments—lost opportunities—if I had done this, if I had done that! So do we torture ourselves when the fatal issue is before us. But I had chosen my course, and it was now too late to retrace my steps.

I deemed it fortunate that in my cable messages to Ellen and my solicitor I had not stated the name of the vessel by which I had taken passage home, my intention having been to give my dear one a delightful surprise. I had time for further deliberation, to more fully mature my plans. It would be necessary that my lawyer should be made acquainted with the facts of my arrival, but I need not communicate with him for a few day. My present concern was to learn from the newspapers of the discovery of Louis' body, and what was said about it. In the afternoon I went out and bought copies of the evening papers, taking care to show myself only in those thoroughfares where I deemed myself safe. The leading principle of all my movements at this period was caution, and I did not lose sight of it even in so trifling a matter as the purchase of a few newspapers. I evinced no anxiety to read them, but put them into my pocket with assumed carelessness, as though I were not interested in their contents. Two or three times I fancied that I was being followed, and I put it to the test, and satisfied myself that my fears had misled me. Returning to the hotel, I looked through the papers in the solitude of my room, without meeting with any reference to a Liverpool tragedy. Neither in the papers of the following day was any allusion made to it.

I put the true construction upon this silence. The house in which I had left Louis' body was practically untenanted, and no indication of anything unusual had been found in the street. But it would have been folly on my part to suppose that the murder could remain forever undiscovered. The suspense was dreadful.

So several days passed by. I removed from the hotel, and took apartments in the north of London. From that address I wrote to my solicitor, requesting him to call upon me in the evening, and asking him to say nothing of my return home. At the appointed hour we were closeted together.

After the first few words of greeting he spoke of Barbara's death, and said it was a happy release for her and for me. He then spoke of Ellen, and I gathered that he had formed a high opinion of her; but he made no inquiries as to my intentions with respect to her. He asked, however, whether it was my wish that she should not be informed of my return. I replied that I wished nobody to know, and he promised to preserve absolute silence. If he felt surprise, he evinced none.

"Have you seen much of her?" I asked.

"Very little," he replied. "Altogether, I think, not more than four or five times. I send her her allowance every month through the post, and she sends me an acknowledgment by return. Am I to continue to send the money?"

"Yes; it is hers for life, whatever becomes of me." He raised his eyes. "Life is uncertain," I added. "And I shall feel obliged by your forwarding any letters to her which I may address to your care, and by your forwarding her letters to any address I may give you. My reasons for concealment are such as I cannot confide to you."

"My dear sir," he returned, and I observed a coldness in his tone, "this is purely a matter of business, and it is my practise never to inquire into reasons or motives. All I have to do, as your solicitor, is to carry out your instructions. When you ask for my advice I shall be ready to give it."

We then went into accounts, and he said that on his next visit he would bring papers for my signature, which would place me in possession of the money which had been set aside to secure my allowance to Barbara. It was in the afternoon of the day on which this visit was to be paid that I carried into execution my cherished design of seeing my dear Ellen. An effectual disguise was imperative, and for this purpose I had purchased in another neighborhood a false beard which I had no difficulty in slipping on, unobserved, in a quiet street. Thus protected, with my overcoat drawn up to my ears, and my hat shading my eyes, I proceeded to the house in which she resided.

I had to wait some time before she appeared. She came out alone, and as she crossed the road she raised her eyes to an upper window, disclosing in that mother's glance the room in which she had left her darling boy. She entered a provision shop a few doors off to make a purchase, and was absent from him not longer than five minutes. Her eye was bright, her step elastic, her face wore an expression of content. How sweet, how beautiful she was! Oh, cruel fate, that kept me from the shelter of her love, that held me bound in bonds I dared not break! I groaned in agony of spirit. But she was happy—yes, happy with her boy, and through her faith in the man to whom she had given her heart. I should have been grateful for that; and I was; but none the less did I suffer, and sigh for the happiness which I had hoped would be mine.

She left the shop, and returned quickly to the house. Is there no way, I thought, is there no way? Could we not live together in some distant country where there would be no fear of detection? There had not been a word in the papers of the Liverpool tragedy; perhaps the danger was already over. I had but to keep the secret safely locked in my breast, to keep a seal upon my lips. Surely that could be done.

So ran my musings as I walked back to my lodgings, where presently I was joined by my solicitor, between whom and myself the final accounts were soon adjusted. Our business finished, he bade me good evening with a noticeable lack of cordiality.

What cared I for that, for him, for any one in the world but my dear Ellen and my boy? As I took up the thread of my musings my heart cried out for them. Why should I, guiltless in intent of crime, be condemned to lifelong misery and despair? It was intolerable—more than intolerable—more than man could bear. I would not bear it—I would not—would not——

Hush! What was that? The newsboys were calling out the special editions of the evening papers. "Horrible discovery in Liverpool! Horrible murder! Extra special! Horrible discovery—horrible murder!"

I flew into the street, all my nerves on fire, and purchasing a paper, was about to re-enter the house, when a hand was laid on my shoulder.

"My dear old John, how are you?"

I turned with a cry of terror, and saw Maxwell smiling in my face.