To such an attack there was only one counter. I kicked him savagely-- and that death-grip relaxed. I writhed, twisted--and was free! As I regained my freedom I struck up at him, and by great good fortune caught him upon the point of the jaw. He staggered. I struck him over the heart, and as he fell I pounced upon him, exulting, for he had sought my life and I knew no pity. Yet I had not thought so strong a man would choke so easily, and for some moments I stood looking down at him, believing that he sought to trick me. But it was not so. His affair was finished. I listened. The situation in which I found myself was full of difficulty. An owl screeched somewhere in the trees, but nothing else stirred. The sound of the shot had not attracted attention, apparently. I stooped and examined the garments of the man who lay at my feet. He carried a travel coupon to Paris bearing that day's date, together with some other papers, but, although I searched all his pockets, I could find nothing of real interest, until in an inside pocket of his coat I felt some hard, irregularly shaped object. I withdrew it, and in the moonlight it lay glittering in my palm ... a _golden scorpion!_ It had apparently been broken in the struggle. The tail was missing, nor could I find it: but I must confess that I did not prolong the search. Some chance effect produced by the shadow of the moonlight, and the presence of that recently purchased ticket, gave me the idea upon which without delay I proceeded to act. Satisfying myself that there was no mark upon any of his garments by which the man could be identified, I unlocked from my wrist an identification disk which I habitually wore there, and locked it upon the wrist of the man with the scar! Clearly, I argued, he had been detailed to dispatch me and then to leave at once for France. I would make it appear that he had succeeded. Behold me, ten minutes later, driving slowly along a part of the Thames Embankment which I chanced to remember, a gruesome passenger riding behind me in the cab. I was reflecting as I kept a sharp look-out for a spot which I had noted one day during my travels, how easily one could commit murder in London, when a constable ran out and intercepted me! _Mon Deiu!_ how my heart leapt! "I'll trouble you for your name and number, my lad," he said. "What for?" I asked, and remembering a rare fragment of idiom: "What's up with you?" I added. "Your lamp's out!" he cried, "that's what's up with me!" "Oh," said I, climbing from my seat--"very well. I'm sorry. I didn't know. But here is my license." I handed him the little booklet and began to light my lamps, cursing myself for a dreadful artist because I had forgotten to do so. "All right," he replied, and handed it back to me. "But how the devil you've managed to get _all_ your lamps out, I can't imagine!" "This is my first job since dusk," I explained hurrying around to the tail-light. "And _he_ don't say much!" remarked the constable.