Three-Four-One responded with heavy hand ... conversation.... Mr. Wriford standing dripping, sick, cold, beyond thought, presently walking across the Embankment and up a street leading to the Strand in Three-Four-One's strong grasp. "Where are you taking me?" said Mr. Wriford. "Bow Street," said Three-Four-One. "Let me go!" sobbed Mr. Wriford. "Not arf," said Three-Four-One. Then a police whistle, shouts, running feet. Round the corner two men racing at top speed into Mr. Wriford and Three-Four-One, and Mr. Wriford and Three-Four-One sent spinning. All to earth, and the two runners atop, and a pursuing constable, unable to stop, upon the four of them. Blows, oaths, struggles. Mr. Wriford rolled free of the pack and got to his feet, viewed a moment the struggle in progress before him, then turned down the side-street whence the pursuit had come, and ran; doubled up to the Strand and across the Strand and ran and ran and ran; glanced over his shoulder and saw one running, not after him, but with him--wet as himself and very like himself. "What do you want?" gasped Mr. Wriford. The figure made no reply but steadily ran with Mr. Wriford, and Mr. Wriford recognised him and stopped. "You're Wriford, aren't you?" cried Mr. Wriford, and in sudden paroxysm screamed: "Why didn't you drown? Why didn't you drown when I tried to drown you, curse you?" and in paroxysm of hate struck the man across his face. He felt his own face struck but felt hurt no more than when he had bruised his thigh in leaping from the Embankment wall. "Come on, then!" cried Mr. Wriford. "Come on, then, if you can! I'll make you sorry for it, Wriford. Come on, then!" And Mr. Wriford turned again, and with the figure steadily beside him, ran and ran and ran and ran and ran. CHAPTER IV ONE RUNS: ONE FOLLOWS I Most dreadful pains of distressed breathing, of bursting heart and of throbbing head, afflicted Mr. Wriford as he ran. He laboured on despite them. He forgot, too, that he had started running to escape arrest and had run on--across the Strand, up Kingsway, through Russell Square, across the Euston road and still on--in terror of pursuit. All that possessed him now was fear and hatred of the one that ran steadily at his elbow, whom constantly he looked at across his shoulder and then would try to run faster, whom presently he faced, halting in his run and at first unable to speak for the agonies of his exertions. Then Mr. Wriford said gaspingly: "Look here--you're not to follow me. Do you understand?" and then cried, with sobbing breaths: "Go away! Go away, I tell you!" In the rays that came from an electric-light standard near which they stood, Figure of Wriford seemed only to grin in mock of these commands.