Triffitt was already leading his sweetheart quietly out. In the gloom of the street he saw Burchill's tall figure striding away towards Cromwell Road. Triffitt's companion was an athletically inclined young woman--long walks in the country on summer Sundays had toughened her powers of locomotion and she strode out manfully in response to Triffitt's command to hurry up. "Lucky that you were with me, Trixie!" exclaimed Triffitt. "You make a splendid blind. Supposing he does look round and sees that he's being followed? Why, he'd never think that we were after him. Slip your hand in my arm--he'll think we're just a couple of sweethearts, going his way. Gad!--what a surprise! And what a cheek he has--with all those bills out against him!" "You don't think he'll shoot you if he catches sight of you?" asked Trixie, anxiously. "He'd be sure to recognize you, wouldn't he?" "We'll not come within shooting distance," replied Triffitt grimly. "All I want to do is to track him. Of course, if he gets into any vehicle, I'll have to act. Let's draw a bit nearer." Burchill showed no sign of hailing any vehicle; indeed, he showed no sign of anything but cool confidence. It was certainly nearly nine o'clock of a dark winter evening, but there was plenty of artificial light in the streets, and Burchill made no attempt to escape its glare. He walked on, smoking a cigar, jauntily swinging an umbrella, he passed and was passed by innumerable people; more than one policeman glanced at his tall figure and took no notice. And Triffitt chuckled cynically. "There you are, Trixie!" he said. "There's a fellow who's wanted about as badly as can be, whose picture's posted up outside every police-station in London, and at every port in England, and he walks about, and stares at people, and passes policemen as unconcernedly as I do. The fact of the case is that if I went to that bobby and pointed Burchill out, and told the bobby who he is, all that bobby would say would be, 'Who are you a-kiddin' of?'--or words to that equivalent. And so--still ahead he goes, and we after him! And--where?" Burchill evidently knew very well where he was going. He crossed Cromwell Road, went up Queen's Road, turned into Queen's Gate Terrace, and leisurely pursuing his way, proceeded to cut through various streets and thoroughfares towards Kensington High Street. Always he looked forward; never once did he turn nor seem to have any suspicion that he was being followed. There was nothing here of the furtive slink, the frightened slouch of the criminal escaped from justice; the man's entire bearing was that of fearlessness; he strode across Kensington High Street in the full glare of light before the Town Hall and under the noses of several policemen.