He slept again and dreamed of long flights through space pursued by demons. How he longed for day. How slowly the hours passed after dawn, until the newspapers were obtainable, with their columns of emptiness for him. A letter came from Evelyn. It was a trifle reserved, with an impulse to tears concealed in it. "I asked mother for fifty pounds," she wrote, "so the Blue Atom incident has ended, but I don't think I will ever understand the mood in which you wrote your last telegram. Perhaps your letter now in the post--I half expected it at mid-day--will explain matters somewhat." He consigned Blue Atom to a sultry clime, and began to ask himself why Mr. Abingdon had not written. The ex-magistrate's reticence annoyed him. A letter, even remonstrating with him, would be grateful. This silence was irritating; it savored of doubt, and doubt was the one phase of thought he wished to keep out of Mr. Abingdon's mind at that moment. As for Evelyn, she mistrusted even his telegrams, while a bank had accepted his signature without reservation. He would punish her with zest. Philip Anson's memory would be poisoned in her heart long before she realized that he was dead. CHAPTER XX. _Nemesis._ Philip was thrown into the sea on a Tuesday. Jocky Mason reached London on Wednesday, and kept his appointment with Inspector Bradley on Thursday evening. The inspector received him graciously, thus chasing from the ex-convict's mind a lurking suspicion that matters were awry. There is a curious sympathy between the police and well-known criminals. They meet with friendliness and exchange pleasantries, as a watchdog might fraternize with a wolf in off hours. But Mason had no responsive smile or ready quip. "What's up?" he demanded, morosely. "You sent for me. Here I am. I would have brought my ticket sooner if you hadn't written." "All right, Mason. Keep your wool on. Do you remember Superintendent Robinson?" "Him that was inspector in Whitechapel when I was put away? Rather." "Well, some friends of yours have been inquiring from him as to your whereabouts. He sent a message round, and I promised that you should meet them if you showed up. I was half afraid you had bolted to the States." "Friends! I have no friends." "Oh, yes, you have--very dear friends, indeed." "Then where are they?" He glared around the roomy police office, but it was only tenanted by policemen attending to various books or chatting quietly across a huge counter. His surly attitude did not diminish the inspector's kindliness. "Don't be so doubtful on that point, Mason. Have you no children?" Something in the police officer's eyes gave the man a clew. His swarthy face flushed and his hands clinched. "Yes," he said, huskily. "I left two boys. Their mother died. They were lost. I have looked for them everywhere." Inspector Bradley pointed to a door. "Go into that room," he said, quietly, "and you will find them. They are waiting there for you."