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322 sleeping or waking. Each moment as the express rushed south increased the distance between us, yet was I not on my way back to England with a clear and distinct purpose? I snatched at any clue, however small, with desperate eagerness, as a drowning man clutching at a straw.

The spy from Abo had seen me on the railway-platform on my departure from Petersburg. He had overheard me buy a ticket for London, and previous to stepping into the train I had smiled at him in glad triumph. My journey was too long a one for him to follow, and I knew that I had at last outwitted him.

He had expected to see Elma with me no doubt, and his disappointment was plainly marked. But of Woodroffe I had neither seen nor heard anything.

It was a cold but dry November night in London, and I sat dining with Jack Durnford at a small table in the big well-lit room of the Junior United Service Club. Easy-going and merry as of old, my friend was bubbling over with good spirits, delighted to be back again in town after three years' sailing up and down the Mediterranean, from Gib to Smyrna, manœuvring always, yet with never a chance of a fight.

His well-shaven face bore the mark of the southern suns, and the backs of his hands were tanned by the heat and the sea. He was, indeed, as smart an officer as any at the Junior, for the Marines are proverbial for their neatness, and his men on board the Bulwark had received many a pleasing compliment from the Admiral.