“Richard,” uttered Mr. Carlyle, “I am thunderstruck!  I fear you have done wrong to come here.”

“I cut off from London at a moment’s notice,” replied Richard, who was literally shivering with the cold.  “I’m dodged, Mr. Carlyle, I am indeed.  The police are after me, set on by that wretch Thorn.”

Mr. Carlyle turned to the sideboard and poured out a wineglass of brandy.  “Drink it, Richard, it will warm you.”

“I’d rather have it in some hot water, sir.”

“But how am I to get the hot water brought in?  Drink this for now.  Why, how you tremble.”

“Ah, a few hours outside in the cold snow is enough to make the strongest man tremble, sir; and it lies so deep in places that you have to come along at a snail’s pace.  But I’ll tell you about this business.  A fortnight ago I was at a cabstand at the West End, talking to a cab-driver, when some drops of rain came down.  A gentleman and lady were passing at the time, but I had not paid any attention to them.  ’By Jove!’ I heard him exclaim to her, ’I think we’re going to have pepper.  We had better take a cab, my dear.’  With that the man I was talking to swung open the door of his cab, and she got in—­such a fair young lady, she was!  I turned to look at him, and you might just have knocked me down with astonishment.  Mr. Carlyle, it was the man, Thorn.”

“Indeed!”

“You thought I might be mistaken in him that moonlight night, but there was no mistaking him in broad daylight.  I looked him full in the face, and he looked at me.  He turned as white as cloth.  Perhaps I did—­I don’t know.”

“Was he well dressed?”

“Very.  Oh, there’s no mistaking his position.  That he moves in the higher classes there’s no doubt.  The cab drove away, and I got up behind it.  The driver thought boys were there, and turned his head and his whip, but I made him a sign.  We didn’t go much more than the length of a street.  I was on the pavement before Thorn was, and looked at him again, and again he went white.  I marked the house, thinking it was where he lived, and—­”

“Why did you not give him into custody, Richard?”

Richard Hare shook his head.  “And my proofs of his guilt, Mr. Carlyle?  I could bring none against him—­no positive ones.  No, I must wait till I can get proofs to do that.  He would turn round upon me now and swear my life away to murder.  Well, I thought I’d ascertain for certain what his name was, and that night I went to the house, and got into conversation with one of the servants, who was standing at the door.  ’Does Captain Thorn live here?’ I asked him.

“‘Mr. Westleby lives here,’ said he; ‘I don’t know any Captain Thorn.’

“Then that’s his name, thought I to myself.  ‘A youngish man, isn’t he?’ said I, ‘very smart, with a pretty wife?’

“‘I don’t know what you call youngish,’ he laughed, ’my master’s turned sixty, and his wife’s as old.’