Screw, pale and haggard-looking, evidently" target="_blank" title="ad.明显地">evidently not yet recovered from
the effect of my grip on his throat! Screw, in attendance on the

runner, traveling inside the coach in the character of an
invalid. He must be going this journey to help the Bow Street

officers to identify some one of our scattered gang of whom they
were in pursuit. It could not be the doctor--the runner could

discover him without assistance from anybody. Why might it not be
me?

I began to think whether it would be best to trust boldly in my
disguise, and my lucky position outside the coach, or whether I

should abandon my fellow-passengers immediately. It was not easy
to settle at once which course was the safest--so I tried the

effect of looking at my two alternatives from another point of
view. Should I risk everything, and go on resolutely to

Crickgelly, on the chance of discovering that Alicia and Miss
Giles were one and the same person--or should I give up on the

spot the only prospect of finding my lost mistress, and direct my
attention entirely to the business of looking after my own

safety?
As the latter alternative practically resolved itself into the

simple question of whether I should act like a man who was in
love, or like a man who was not, my natural instincts settled the

difficulty in no time. I boldly imitated the example of my
fellow-passengers, and went in to dinner, determined to go on

afterward to Crickgelly, though all Bow Street should be
following at my heels.

CHAPTER XIII.
SECURE as I tried to feel in my change of costume, my cropped

hair, and my whiskerless cheeks, I kept well away from the
coach-window, when the dinner at the inn was over and the

passengers were called to take their places again. Thus
far--thanks to the strength of my grasp on his neck, which had

left him too weak to be an outside passenger--Screw had certainly
not seen me; and, if I played my cards properly, there was no

reason why he should see me before we got to our destination.
Throughout the rest of the journey I observed the strictest

caution, and fortune seconded my efforts. It was dark when we got
to Shrewsbury. On leaving the coach I was enabled, under cover of

the night, to keep a sharp watch on the proceedings of Screw and
his Bow Street ally. They did not put up at the hotel, but walked

away to a public house. There, my clericalcharacter obliged me
to leave them at the door.

I returned to the hotel, to make inquiries about conveyances.
The answers informed me that Crickgelly was a little

fishing-village, and that there was no coach direct to it, but
that two coaches running to two small Welsh towns situated at

nearly equal distances from my destination, on either side of it,
would pass through Shrewsbury the next morning. The waiter added,

that I could book a place--conditionally--by either of these
vehicles; and that, as they were always well-filled, I had better

be quick in making my choice between them. Matters had now
arrived at such a pass, that nothing was left for me but to trust

to chance. If I waited till the morning to see whether Screw and
the Bow Street runnertraveled in my direction, and to find out,

in case they did, which coach they took, I should be running the
risk of losing a place for myself, and so delaying my journey for

another day. This was not to be thought of. I told the waiter to
book me a place in which coach he pleased. The two were called

respectively The Humming Bee, and The Red Cross Knight. The
waiter chose the latter.

Sleep was not much in my way that night. I rose almost as early
as Boots himself--breakfasted--then sat at the coffee-room window

looking out anxiously for the two coaches.
Nobody seemed to agree which would pass first. Each of the inn

servants of whom I inquired made it a matter of partisanship, and
backed his favorite coach with the most consummateassurance. At

last, I heard the guard's horn and the clatter of the horses'
hoofs. Up drove a coach--I looked out cautiously--it was the

Humming Bee. Three outside places were vacant; one behind the
coachman; two on the dickey. The first was taken immediately by a

farmer, the second---to my unspeakabledisgust and terror--was
secured by the inevitable Bow Street runner; who, as soon as h e

was up, helped the weakly Screw into the third place, by his
side. They were going to Crickgelly; not a doubt of it, now.

I grew mad with impatience for the arrival of the Red Cross
Knight. Half-an-hour passed--forty minutes--and then I heard

another horn and another clatter--and the Red Cross Knight
rattled up to the hotel door at full speed. What if there should

be no vacant place for me! I ran to the door with a sinking
heart. Outside, the coach was declared to be full.

"There is one inside place," said the waiter, "if you don't mind
paying the--"

Before he could say the rest, I was occupying that one inside
place. I remember nothing of the journey from the time we left

the hotel door, except that it was fearfully long. At some hour
of the day with which I was not acquainted (for my watch had

stopped for want of winding up), I was set down in a clean little
street of a prim little town (the name of which I never thought

of asking), and was told that the coach never went any further.
No post-chaise was to be had. With incredible difficulty I got

first a gig, then a man to drive it; and, last, a pony to draw
it. We hobbled away crazily from the inn door. I thought of Screw

and the Bow Street runner approaching Crickgelly, from their
point of the compass, perhaps at the full speed of a good

post-chaise--I thought of that, and would have given all the
money in my pocket for two hours' use of a fast road-hack.

Judging by the time we occupied in making the journey, and a
little also by my own impatience, I should say that Crickgelly

must have been at least twenty miles distant from the town where
I took the gig. The sun was setting, when we first heard, through

the evening stillness, the sound of the surf on the seashore. The
twilight was falling as we entered the little fishing village,

and let our unfortunate pony stop, for the last time, at a small
inn door.

The first question I asked of the landlord was, whether two
gentlemen (friends of mine, of course, whom I expected to meet)

had driven into Crickgelly, a little while before me. The reply
was in the negative; and the sense of relief it produced seemed

to rest me at once, body and mind, after my long and anxious
journey. Either I had beaten the spies on the road, or they were

not bound to Crickgelly. Any way, I had first possession of the
field of action. I paid the man who had driven me, and asked my

way to Zion Place. My directions were simple--I had only to go
through the village, and I should find Zion Place at the other

end of it.
The village had a very strong smell, and a curious habit of

building boats in the street between intervals of detached
cottages; a helpless, muddy, fishy little place. I walked through

it rapidly; turned inland a few hundred yards; ascended some
rising ground; and discerned, in the dim twilight, four small

lonesome villas standing in pairs, with a shed and a saw-pit on
one side, and a few shells of unfinished houses on the other.

Some madly speculativebuilder was evidently" target="_blank" title="ad.明显地">evidentlytrying to turn
Crickgelly into a watering-place.

I made out Number Two, and discovered the bell-handle with
difficulty, it was growing so dark. A servant-maid--corporeally

enormous; but, as I soon found, in a totally undeveloped state,
mentally--opened the door.

"Does Miss Giles live here?" I asked.
"Don't see no visitors," answered the large maiden. "'T'other one