When they were alone Preene explained fully to the astonished Marston what he had done. ‘I wouldn’t tell you before because I relied upon your terror to do the trick. If you hadn’t been frightened, Heckett would have smelt a rat. By Jove! you were in a state, Marston. I don’t think you’ll die game, you know.’ ‘Don’t, for Heaven’s sake,’ cried Marston, with a shudder. ‘But these men, what will they think?’ ‘That I came up here to arrest a suspected swindler, and that he’s got clear away. They know me. Heckett will clear off now double quick, and you won’t see him in a hurry. He’s bound to believe it was a genuine arrest, and he’s shot a policeman, and, for all he knows, killed him.’ Marston drew a long breath, and poured himself out half a tumblerful of brandy. ‘It would almost have been a good job if he had killed him quite,’ he said, with a ghastly smile. ‘I fancy even Josh Heckett would hesitate about running his head into a noose.’ Preene elevated his eyebrows. ‘My dear Marston,’ he exclaimed, ‘in these matters you are evidently not at home. You don’t suppose I shall miss such an opportunity of completing my contract with artistic skill? For the sequel of this adventure read to-morrow’s papers. I am going to the Telegraph office now. Ta-ta. I hope I shall see you looking better when I call to settle.’ The next day Marston turned to the _Daily Telegraph_, and was astonished to read the following paragraph: ‘Last evening a policeman, while endeavouring to arrest a well-known burglar and bad character in the north of London, was shot by the ruffian and dangerously wounded, he is not expected to live many hours, the hospital authorities having no hope of his recovery.’ The paragraph was deliciously vague. It was sent in through an official channel and inserted. No hospital was mentioned, and nothing more was heard of the event. It was nobody’s business to contradict or explain it. But Marston read it, and he acknowledged that Seth Preene had indeed carried out his undertaking like a true artist. And hurrying down that morning in a fast train to the coast, shaved and disguised, a big burly fellow, dressed like a seafaring man, bought a paper and asked a young gentleman who accompanied him to look it through and see if there were any murders or anything in the professional way. And the young gentleman’s quick eye caught that paragraph and he read it aloud, and the old seafaring fellow seemed to feel for the policeman very much, for his mouth twitched and he looked as if riding with his back to the engine didn’t agree with him. At the terminus, a point of embarkation for emigrants, the young gentleman and the seafaring man parted company. ‘Good-bye Josh. God bless yer. Sorry yer-r got to go, but I ‘spose yer must. Come back soon.’ ‘Good-bye, Boss,’ answered the sailor; ‘and don’t forgit what I’ve told yer, and yer can keep the parrut.’