luxury put the British Army. But one obvious purpose stamped itself upon him: the man who knew must be got hold of, privately and securely, and must tell him all—and must tell him soon. He picked up the scent again from a gentleman leaning against an area railing (who sold it for a trifling sum), and hotly followed up his quarry—not two minutes behind.
At top speed, hatless and gowned, clutching his notes, the tall and lanky Don careered, as might a camel career whom some massive lion pursues in the deserts of the East. Not often are the streets of London afforded so great a spectacle as that of a Philosopher, muddily splashed, gowned and hatless, with long loose legs and wild head in air, racing with a mob at his heels.
Those Londoners who happened to be at once at lesiure and unconstrained by convention—news-boys and boot-blacks, loungers, rambling thieves—pelted after him in a small but increasing crowd. Mr Higginson heard their steps, and, what was worse, he saw amongst them a policeman. He dashed down an alley that opened to his left, turned up a court, and ran to ground with a promptitude that was amazing. For in the little court
