I covered my face with my hands; it seemed so
pitiful, and it was such a terrible death. "What have I done?" I cried again. "You must take me for some other man. You cannot know me." "You black-hearted devil," said the man at my side, "we know you well
enough. There's not a man within thirty miles of this that won't curse
Jack Smith when you are burning in hell." "My name is not Smith," I said, with some hope left in me. "My name is
Wilkins. I was Mr. Smith's secretary, but I knew nothing of him." "Hark at the black liar," said the man. "Secretary be damned! You were
clever enough, I dare say, to slink out at night, and keep your face in
the dark, but we've tracked you out at last. But your time's up. Come
along." I was dragged to the tree and bound to it with chains, and I saw the
piles of wood heaped all about me, and shut my eyes. Then I felt myself
drenched all over with some liquid, and looked again, and a woman
grinned at me. She had just emptied a great can of petroleum over me and
over the wood. A voice shouted, "Fire away," and I fainted and knew
nothing more. When I opened my eyes I was lying on a bed in a bare comfortless room. A
doctor was holding some strong salts to my nostrils, and a gentleman
standing by the bed, whom I afterwards found to be the sheriff,
addressed me:--

"Say, mister," he began, "you've had an uncommon narrow squeak for it. The boys were just about lighting up when I came along with the posse,
and I had as much as I could do to bring you off, I can tell you. And,
mind you, I don't blame, them; they had made up their minds, you see,
that you were the head of the Black Gulf gang, and at first nothing I
could say would persuade them you weren't Jack Smith. Luckily, a man
from here named Evans, that came along with us, allowed he had seen you
with Jack Smith, and that you were yourself. So we brought you along and
jailed you, but you can go if you like, when you're through with this
faint turn." I got on the cars the next day, and in three weeks I was in London;
again almost penniless. But from that time my fortune seemed to change. I made influential friends in all directions; bank directors courted my
company, and editors positively flung themselves into my arms. I had
only to choose my career, and after a while I determined that I was
meant by nature for a life of comparative leisure. With an ease that
seemed almost ridiculous I obtained a well-paid position in connection
with a prosperous political club. I have charming chambers in a central
neighborhood close to the parks; the club _chef_ exerts himself when I
lunch or dine, and the rarest vintages in the cellar are always at my
disposal. Yet, since my return to London, I have never known a day's
security or peace; I tremble when I awake lest Smith should be standing
at my bed, and every step I take seems to bring me nearer to the edge of
the precipice. Smith, I knew, had escaped free from the raid of the
vigilantes, and I grew faint at the thought that he would in all
probability return to London, and that suddenly and unprepared I should
meet him face to face. Every morning as I left my house, I would peer up
and down the street, expecting to see that dreaded figure awaiting me; I
have delayed at street corners, my heart in my mouth, sickening at the
thought that a few quick steps might bring us together; I could not bear
to frequent the theatres or music halls, lest by some bizarre chance he
should prove to be my neighbor. Sometimes, I have been forced, against
my will, to walk out at night, and then in silent squares the shadows
have made me shudder, and in the medley of meetings in the crowded
thoroughfares, I have said to myself, "It must come sooner or later; he
will surely return to town, and I shall see him when I feel most
secure." I scanned the newspapers for hint or intimation of approaching
danger, and no small type nor report of trivial interest was allowed to
pass unread. Especially I read and re-read the advertisement columns,
but without result. Months passed by and I was undisturbed till, though
I felt far from safe, I no longer suffered from the intolerable
oppression of instant and ever present terror. This afternoon as I was
walking quietly along Oxford Street, I raised my eyes, and looked across
the road, and then at last I saw the man who had so long haunted my
thoughts. *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Wilkins finished his wine, and leaned back in his chair, looking
sadly at Dyson; and then, as if a thought struck him, fished out of an
inner pocket a leather letter case, and handed a newspaper cutting
across the table. Dyson glanced closely at the slip, and saw that it had been extracted
from the columns of an evening paper. It ran as follows:--

               WHOLESALE LYNCHING. SHOCKING STORY. A Dalziel telegram from Reading (Colorado) states that advices received
there from Blue Rock Park report a frightful instance of popular
vengeance. For some time the neighborhood has been terrorized by the
crimes of a gang of desperadoes, who, under the cover of a carefully
planned organization, have perpetrated the most infamous cruelties on
men and women. A Vigilance Committee was formed, and it was found that
the leader of the gang was a person named Smith, living in Blue Rock
Park. Action was taken, and six of the worst in the band were summarily
strangled in the presence of two or three hundred men and women. Smith
is said to have escaped. *       *       *       *       *

"This is a terrible story," said Dyson; "I can well believe that your
days and nights are haunted by such fearful scenes as you have
described. But surely you have no need to fear Smith? He has much, more
cause to fear you. Consider, you have only to lay your information
before the police, and a warrant would be immediately issued for his
arrest. Besides, you will, I am sure, excuse me for what I am going to
say." "My dear sir," said Mr. Wilkins, "I hope you will speak to me with
perfect freedom." "Well, then, I must confess that my impression was that you were rather
disappointed at not being able to stop the man before he drove off. I
thought you seemed annoyed that you could not get across the street." "Sir, I did not know what I was about. I caught sight of the man, but it
was only for a moment, and the agony you witnessed was the agony of
suspense. I was not perfectly certain of the face; and the horrible
thought that Smith was again in London overwhelmed me. I shuddered at
the idea of this incarnate fiend, whose soul is black with shocking
crimes, mingling free and unobserved amongst the harmless crowds,
meditating perhaps a new and more fearful cycle of infamies. I tell
you, sir, that an awful being stalks through the streets, a being before
whom the sunlight itself should blacken, and the summer air grow chill
and dank. Such thoughts as these rushed upon me with the force of a
whirlwind; I lost my senses." "I see.