Just one glimpse he permitted himself—­and, in a voice that seemed to reach him from a vast distance, the detective was addressing him!...

Slinking to his room, with his craven heart missing every fourth beat, and his mind in chaos, Soames sank down upon the bed, locked his hands together and hugged them, convulsively, between his knees.

It was come!  He had overstepped that almost invisible boundary-line which divides indiscretion from crime.  He knew now that the voice within him, the voice which had warned him against Gianapolis and against becoming involved in what dimly he had perceived to be an elaborate scheme, had been, not the voice of cowardice (as he had supposed) but that of prudence.

And it was too late.  The dead woman, he told himself—­he had been unable to see her very clearly—­undoubtedly was Mrs. Leroux.  What in God’s name had happened!  Probably her husband had killed her... which meant?  It meant that proofs—­proofs—­were come into his possession; and who should be involved, entangled in the meshes of this fallen conspiracy, but himself, Luke Soames!

As must be abundantly evident, Soames was not a criminal of the daring type; he did not believe in reaching out for anything until he was well assured that he could, if necessary, draw back his hand.  This last venture, this regrettable venture—­this ruinous venture—­had been a mistake.  He had entered into it under the glamour of Gianapolis’ personality.  Of what use, now, to him was his swelling bank balance?

But in justice to the mental capacity of Soames, it must be admitted that he had not entirely overlooked such a possibility as this; he had simply refrained, for the good of his health, from contemplating it.

Long before, he had observed, with interest, that, should an emergency arise (such as a fire), a means of egress had been placed by the kindly architect adjacent to his bedroom window.  Thus, his departure on the night of the murder was not the fruit of a sudden scheme, but of one well matured.

Closing and locking his bedroom door, Soames threw out upon the bed the entire contents of his trunk; selected those things which he considered indispensable, and those which might constitute clues.  He hastily packed his grip, and, with a last glance about the room and some seconds of breathless listening at the door, he attached to the handle a long piece of cord, which at some time had been tied about his trunk, and, gently opening the window, lowered the grip into the courtyard beneath.  The light he had already extinguished, and with the conviction dwelling in his bosom that in some way he was become accessory to a murder—­that he was a man shortly to be pursued by the police of the civilized world—­he descended the skeleton lift-shaft, picked up his grip, and passed out under the archway into the lane at the back of Palace Mansions and St. Andrew’s Mansions.

He did not proceed in the direction which would have brought him out into the Square, but elected to emerge through the other end.  At exactly the moment that Inspector Dunbar rushed into his vacated room, Mr. Soames, grip in hand, was mounting to the top of a southward bound ’bus at the corner of Parliament Street!