Was he running his head into a noose,
blindfold? Who was the Billington he was thus made to personate,
and who must really be staying at the very same time in the Duke of
Devonshire? Was this just another of Nevitt's wily tricks? Had he
induced his victim to accept without question the name and character
of some still more open criminal?
There was no time now, however, to drawback or to hesitate. The
die was cast; he must stand by its arbitrament. He had decided to
go, and on that hasty decision had acted in a way that was practically
irrevocable. He put his things together with trembling hands,
called a cab by the porter, and drove off alone in a turmoil of
doubt, to the landing-stage in the harbour.
Policemen not a few were standing about on the pier and in the
streets as he drove past openly. But in spite of the fact that
a warrant had been issued for his apprehension, none of them took
the slightest apparent notice of him. He wondered much at this.
But there was really no just cause for wonder. For at least an hour
earlier the police had ceased to look out any longer for Nevitt's
murderer. And the reason they had done so was simply this: a telegram
had come down from Scotland Yard in the most positive terms, "Waring
arrested this afternoon at Dover.
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