CHAPTER IX.
Disaster At Temple Colney.
I.
Three days have passed.
That somewhat pale and haggard-looking young man striding, a basket beneath his arm, up the main street of Temple Colney is George. The villagers stop to stare after him; grin, and nudge into one another responsive grins, at his curious mannerisms. He walks in the exact centre of the roadway, as far as he can keep from passers-by on either side. Approached by anyone, he takes a wide circle to avoid that person. Sometimes a spasm as of fear will cross his face and he will violently shake the basket he carries. Always he walks with giant strides. Every morning he shoots out of the inn where he is staying as though sped on the blast of some ghostly current of air; every evening, returning, he gives the impression of gathering himself together on the threshold, then goes bolting in at whirlwind speed. He is a somewhat pale and haggard young man.
The villagers know him well. He is the young hairship inventor who has a private sitting-room at the Colney Arms. Certain of them, agog to pry his secret, followed him as he set out one day. They discovered nothing. For hours they followed; but he, glancing ever over his shoulder, pounded steadily on, mile upon mile—field, lane, high road, hill and dale. He never shook them off though he ran; they never brought him to standstill though indomitably they pursued. Towards evening the exhausted procession came thundering up the village street.
It was a very pale and haggard young man that bolted into the Colney Arms that night.