might be recognised; if I were, heaven only knew what might happen. As I leaned back in that taxicab it struck me forcibly that the sooner I was out of England the better it might be. I have always had a horror of being mixed up with the police, no matter how. It comforted me to reflect that I should be out of England in less than four-and-twenty hours. “Assassin” indeed! I did not want to have such a word associated with the name of Hugh Beckwith, even if it were only for half an hour. At the best folks might regard it as a first-rate joke, and one of which I should never hear the last for the rest of my life.
I dismissed that second cab in Highbury, strolled again, and got into a third. In that I drove home. It is a long way from Highbury New Park to Fulham Palace Road. I do not pretend
