He obeyed so suddenly that I nearly dived through the windshield. Then we jumped, one on either side, and started to run back. Zara had already dismounted, and I saw him peeling his coat. A picture arose out of the recent past: a foggy night off Ushant: and I seemed to hear again that eerie cry, “Man overboard!” So it was that Zara had eluded us once before. Undoubtedly he was going to do so again; and for all the cold hatred in my heart, I could not entirely withhold admiration as I saw him bound upon the parapet, raise his arms, and take that appalling dive into the Thames far below. I knew now, however, what I had not known formerly: that Adolf Zara’s courage was the courage of madness. His was that disease of fanaticism which, when it does not cough up a Tomsky, floods the criminal lunatic asylums. As we both craned over the parapet, peering down at the uneasy water, I heard the sound of a runner and then the flat note of a police whistle. “There he is!” said O’Shea. I stared but could see nothing, when: “Hello, there! What’s the game! Who was it that went over?” cried a loud voice. We turned, as a breathless constable came doubling up. “A very dangerous criminal,” O’Shea replied, “and we were chasing him. Quick, officer! on which side of the Bridge shall we find a boat?” The manner of one accustomed to give orders is unmistakable, and: “West, sir,” the constable answered promptly. “There’s a boat at the pier.” “Good,” said O’Shea, and started to run to the car. I followed. As we jumped in, turned, and headed back to where Big Ben recorded the fact that only seven minutes had elapsed since we had passed St. James’s Palace, I saw the constable coming after us. But, leaving the car by the foot of the clock tower, O’Shea raced across to the gate at the head of those steps that lead down to the pier. It was locked; and here I thought that the chase ended. But I had counted without O’Shea. London, unlike New York, normally is a very empty city at two o’clock in the morning; but now, as if conjured up by a magic talisman, a group began to assemble. I looked to my right--from which the constable was bearing down upon us. Even as he ran, his bearing was ominous. It occurred to me that he regarded O’Shea and myself with justifiable suspicion, and I foresaw complications. It was odd, I reflected, that we stood almost in the shadow of Scotland Yard--representing Law and Order, the forces of Empire against those of disruption--but that the very powers that should have backed us were likely now to aid and abet a dangerous conspirator and assassin in escaping the meshes of justice. The constable rather windily began to blow his whistle again. A resolute-looking man, clean-shaven, and of a very hard-bitten countenance, suddenly appeared at my elbow. “What’s the trouble?” he inquired--and challenged me with keen eyes.