Suddenly I became conscious that some one had been following me, though the footsteps of the person seemed almost noiseless.
Thinking it might be some pickpocket, I buttoned my coat across the chest, and grasping my stick firmly, waited until I approached a gas-lamp, then turning suddenly, confronted a respectably-dressed man in the garb of a mechanic.
He was only a few yards from me, and at first I felt ashamed of exhibiting such fear, but a momentary glance sufficed to show that this person was also connected with the adventure of the never-to-be forgotten evening.
He was an elderly man, who bore a striking resemblance to the detective who had called upon me.
I stood aghast, for this man’s appearance had been so sudden and unexpected that I was too much confused for the moment to collect my thoughts.
He was apparently following me and keeping observation upon my movements. That fact instantly aroused in me a feeling of great indignation. I should have spoken, and probably an angry scene would have followed, had not he, with a celerity of movement which baffled my efforts, almost instantly gone off in an opposite direction.
I made no attempt to follow him.
It was intensely annoying to be tracked in this manner. Was I, Frank Burgoyne, to be watched like a suspected criminal or a ticket-of-leave man, because I had—unfortunately, as it seemed—been the means of bringing to light yet another foul piece of handiwork of the unknown miscreant?
Why did they suspect me? What end had they in view in such a proceeding?
Suppose my friends and the world should notice the suspicion resting upon me? I grew hot at the very thought.