Jones, though he had taken the goggles off, saw little of the beauty around him. He was recognising facts, and asking questions of himself. If Hoover or the police were to call at the garage, what would happen? Knowing the route of the car could they telegraph to towns on the way and have him arrested? How did the English law stand as regards escaped gentlemen with hallucinations? Could they be arrested like criminals? Surely not--and yet as regards the law, who could be sure of anything? Jim, the speechless driver, could tell him nothing on these points. Towards dusk they reached a fairly big town, and in the very centre of the main street, Jim stopped the car to light the headlamps. A policeman, passing on his beat, paused to inspect the operation and then moved on, and the car resumed its way, driving into a world of twilight and scented hedges, where the glowworms were lighting up, and over which the sky was showing a silvery sprinkle of stars. Two more towns they passed unhindered, and then came the fringe of London, a maze of lights and ways and houses, tram lines, and then an endless road, half road, half street, lines of shops, lines of old houses and semi gardens. Jim turned in his seat. "This here's the Kent Road," said he. "We're about the middle of it, which part did you want?" "This will do," said Jones, "pull her up." He got out, took the four and sixpence from his pocket, and gave Jim two shillings for a tip. "Going all the way back to-night?" asked he, as he wriggled out of the coat, and handed it over with the goggles. "No," said Jim. "I'll stop at the last pub we passed for the night. There ain't no use over taxin' a car." "Well, good night to you," said Jones. He watched the car turning and vanishing, then, with a feeling of freedom he had never before experienced, he pushed on London-wards. With only two and sixpence in his pocket, he would have to wander about all night, or sit on the embankment. He had several times seen the outcasts on the embankment seats at night, and pitied them; he did not pity them now. They were free men and women. The wind had died away and the night was sultry, much pleasanter out of doors than in, a general term that did not apply to the Old Kent Road. The old road leading down to Kent was once, no doubt, a pleasant enough place, but pleasure had long forsaken it, and cleanliness. It was here that David Copperfield sold his jacket, and the old clothiers' shops are so antiquated that any of them might have been the scene of the purchase. To-night the old Kent Road was swarming, and the further Jones advanced towards the river the thicker seemed the throng.