VIII: The Man in the Street

The Man in the Street

Whether anyone pursued I cannot say. I have some dim recollection, as I came out of the room, of women being huddled against the wall upon the landing, and of their screaming as I went past. But whether any effort was made to arrest my progress I cannot tell. My own impression is that not the slightest attempt to impede my headlong flight was made by anyone.

In what direction I was going I did not know. I was like a man flying through the phantasmagoric happenings of a dream, knowing neither how nor whither. I tore along what I suppose was a broad passage, through a door at the end into what, I fancy, was a drawing-room. Across this room I dashed, helter-skelter, bringing down, in the gloom, unseen articles of furniture, with myself sometimes on top, and sometimes under them. In a trice, each time I fell, I was on my feet again⁠—until I went crashing against a window which was concealed by curtains. It would not have been strange had I crashed through it⁠—but I was spared that. Thrusting aside the curtains, I fumbled for the fastening of the window. It was a tall French casement, extending, so far as I could judge, from floor to ceiling. When I had it open I stepped through it on to the verandah without⁠—to find that I was on the top of the portico which I had vainly essayed to ascend from below.

I tried the road down which I had tried up⁠—proceeding with a breakneck recklessness of which now I shudder to think. It was, probably, some thirty feet above the pavement, yet I rushed at the descent with as much disregard for the safety of life and limb as if it had been only three. Over the edge of the parapet I went, obtaining, with my naked feet, a precarious foothold on the latticework⁠—then down I commenced to scramble. I never did get a proper hold, and when I had descended, perhaps, rather more than half the distance⁠—scraping, as it seemed to me, every scrap of skin off my body in the process⁠—I lost what little hold I had. Down to the bottom I went tumbling, rolling right across the pavement into the muddy road. It was a miracle I was not seriously injured⁠—but in that sense, certainly, that night the miracles were on my side. Hardly was I down, than I was up again⁠—mud and all.

Just as I was getting on to my feet I felt a firm hand grip me by the shoulder. Turning I found myself confronted by a tall, slenderly built man, with a long, drooping moustache, and an overcoat buttoned up to the chin, who held me with a grasp of steel. He looked at me⁠—and I looked back at him.

“After the ball⁠—eh?”

Even then I was struck by something pleasant in his voice, and some quality as of sunshine in his handsome face.

Seeing that I said nothing he went on⁠—with a curious, half mocking smile.

“Is that the way to come slithering down the Apostle’s pillar?⁠—Is it simple burglary, or simpler murder?⁠—Tell me the glad tidings that you’ve killed Paul, and I’ll let you go.”

Whether he was mad or not I cannot say⁠—there was some excuse for thinking so. He did not look mad, though his words and actions alike were strange.

“Although you have confined yourself to gentle felony, shall I not shower blessings on the head of him who has been robbing Paul?⁠—Away with you!”

He removed his grip, giving me a gentle push as he did so⁠—and I was away. I neither stayed nor paused.

I knew little of records, but if anyone has made a better record than I did that night between Lowndes Square and Walham Green I should like to know just what it was⁠—I should, too, like to have seen it done.

In an incredibly short space of time I was once more in front of the house with the open window⁠—the packet of letters⁠—which were like to have cost me so dear!⁠—gripped tightly in my hand.