As daylight advanced, the necessity of getting away from so dangerously prominent a position to some place of shelter and security impressed itself with increasing force on Van Duren's attention. Besides which, he was the prey to a burning thirst. When he began to move, it seemed as if every bone in his body were bruised--but move he must. There was now a broad stretch of brown sand at the foot of the cliff. If he could only reach that, he could manage to crawl along it, and so, in time, reach the inn where he had taken shelter yesterday. He was dreadfully weak and ill, but the effort must be made. He got down to the sands at last, but how he could not have told anyone--he hardly knew himself; and so, by about half-past six, he found himself once more in the shelter of the little inn.
To the landlord, his statement that while walking in the dark he had slipped over the edge of the cliff seemed by no means improbable. Such slips had happened before to strangers, and in more cases than one with fatal results. So his head was washed and strapped up, his clothes well brushed, and some breakfast put before him. He tried to eat but could not; he could only drink. But while thus left alone for awhile he had to consider what his next step ought to be. It seemed by no means improbable that his enemies might come to the conclusion that he had lost his life through his mad leap from the balcony. In that case they would probably trouble themselves no further about him. But in so serious an affair it would not do to leave anything to chance. Now that their business at Marhyddoc was at an end, they would hasten back to London; and it was just as likely as not that one of the first things they would do would be to obtain a warrant for his arrest, and send some one to Spur Alley in search of him. In such a case his only chance of safety lay in being beforehand with his enemies. If he could only reach Spur Alley before them, he could possess himself of the money in the safe, and then, leaving Pringle in charge of the premises, seek some secure hiding place, and there await the progress of events. Even with a start of one or two days only, there were a good many things that he could turn into cash; and, if the worst came to the worst, why there was that other world across the Atlantic, where energy and talent never fail to attain their meed of reward. To catch the next train back to London was evidently the first step that it behoved him to take. An hour later he was at the station.
As a slight measure of precaution, in case there should be any inquiry made after him at Marhyddoc, he took a ticket as far as Crewe only. Arrived at that station, it would be an easy matter for him to book to any point he liked. He had not been in the train more than five minutes before he fell into a deep sleep, and remembered nothing more till he was roused to give up his ticket at Crewe. He got out of the carriage giddy, dazed--staggering like a man the worse for drink. He had evidently-lost a great quantity of blood while lying-exposed on the cliff. A cup of coffee and cognac revived him in some degree. He was determined to get forward to London at all risks, and he now rebooked to Euston. He was fortunate enough this time to get a compartment to himself. The giddiness in his head still continued, and to this was now added a strange, surging noise in his ears. When travelling in former days he had often amused himself by fancying that, underlying the roar and rattle of the train, there was a kind of rude articulate voice, and by trying to find out the words that the voice said to him. To-day he heard this voice clearly enough, and clearly enough he understood the two words that it said to him--that it kept on repeating with a kind of rhythmic iteration, hundreds, nay, thousands of times--two words only without change or variation: "Stop, murderer!" At first it was a relief when the train halted for a minute or two at a station; for a minute or two the voice ceased to stab him with a repetition of its dull, passionless cry. But by-and-by, to his previous torment there was added this other, that the moment the train came to a standstill at a station he heard voices, at first far away in the distance, then gradually coming nearer, the voices of men in pursuit, eager, full of menace, always crying aloud the same two words, "Stop, murderer!" He knew quite well, and it was a fact that he kept repeating to himself as earnestly as though he were striving to impress it upon some second person, that these voices were altogether imaginary--a delusion of his own weakened brain. But that did not prevent the illusion from growing on him to such an extent that, after a time, he found himself getting quite excited lest the train should not start again before the pursuing voices, growing momentarily louder, should come yelling on to the platform itself, and proclaim his terrible secret to the world at large.
What an everlasting journey it seemed to the poor, haunted wretch! At length Willesden was reached, and there Van Duren alighted. There was some sort of vague idea floating in his brain that at every London terminus there might already be some one on the look-out for him, and he would not venture into Euston. He chose rather to make his way on foot through the starlit lanes--for it was dark again by this time--as far as Cricklewood. There he found a return cab, and into that he got and was driven to town.
In the streets of London, busy even at that late hour, there seemed shelter and protection for him. Here he was only one atom among four million others. What place could there be to hide in like London itself? He still heard the voices in the distance, but the roar and rattle of the streets partially drowned them. He discharged his cab at the corner of Eastcheap, and made his way towards Spur Alley on foot.
It was necessary to use most extreme caution in approaching his house. For aught he knew to the contrary, there might have been some one set to watch it already. For fully half an hour he lingered about it, without daring to go too near to it. There was no light in it visible from the street, except in Bakewell's underground kitchen. Everything looked as quiet, dark, and secure as usual. Suddenly a happy thought struck him. He knew the tavern that Pringle was in the habit of frequenting. Perhaps Pringle was there now. It was worth while to go and see. From his clerk he could at once learn whether any particular inquiries had been made after him during his absence.
Jonas Pringle, in the act of conveying a glass of hot rum-and-water to his mouth, had never been more startled in his life than he was when his eyes met those of Max Van Duren staring fixedly at him through the glass door of the tavern. He put down his glass untasted, and for a moment or two he thought that his master was dead, and that he had seen his ghost. But presently the face appeared again, and beckoned him to go out into the street. Then, when he had got outside under the gaslight, he saw that it was indeed his master, but terribly changed. Half a dozen eager questions satisfied Van Duren that no particular inquiry had been made after him, and that Pringle knew nothing. It was hardly likely, at so late an hour of the night, that anyone would come and ask for him. He might utilise the next few hours in making his preparations and getting clear away. So Pringle was sent first to open the door, and then, two minutes later. Van Duren slid in like a shadow, and heard, with a sigh of relief, the heavy door locked and bolted behind him. For a few hours to come there would be rest and safety.
He said nothing to Pringle explanatory of his sudden appearance, or of the condition in which he was--unshaven, haggard, and with a great wound on one side of his head. He flung himself on to a couch, and told Pringle to lower the gas and order some coffee. He hardly seemed to hear his clerk's explanation that the Bakewells had gone out for a holiday, but that he, Pringle, would make him some coffee. Five minutes later, when Pringle came to ask him whether he would not like some toast with his coffee, he was fast asleep on the sofa.
Pringle went back to his coffee-making, chuckling to himself, "What a fool he was to come in search of me, if he only knew! What a fool he is to let me make his coffee for him! Why shouldn't I put a dose of poison in it? That wouldn't be such a bad sort of revenge; and if I hadn't decided on something different, I might perhaps have adopted it. He looks half crazy to-night. Something queer has happened to him while he's been away. How did he come by that gash in his head? But all that matters nothing to me. It only matters to me that he's here, under this roof, in my power. Better, far better for him had he never set foot across this threshold again!"
He was wide awake when Pringle took in the coffee. "This is kind of you, Pringle," he said, and he began to drink it eagerly.