The Outlaw (Marriott Watson)/Chapter 4
IV. THE HOUSE ON THE CANAL.
THE black night had fallen with rain and sleet, and the lamps in the Strand shone faintly and without comfort upon the streaming street. In the broad windows of the shops alone, was there any warmth or brilliance. From the grating below the building before which I had stopped rose a fat and fragrant heat which cheered, while it tantalised, my spiritless body. The gravy in the huge cauldrons within the bright window hissed and bubbled among the sausages, but there was nothing in my pockets which would justify an entrance into the shop. I stood and watched, with greedy eyes and an ever-yawning stomach. Indeed, I had tasted no food for two days, save a few broken pieces on the previous day which the generosity of a poor creature in the doss-house had shared with me. While I stayed there, subject to the wretched drizzle, not knowing nor caring what I should do next, or in which direction my weary feet would carry me, I was aware of footsteps that passed at a slow and even pace. There were not many out in that wild night, for the theatres had closed upon their patrons, and only those whom necessity had driven into the abominable weather went by with a swift step or stalked predatory, at a venture. These footsteps sounded in my ears soft, steady and deliberate, but it was not until I was conscious that they had passed and repassed me several times that I looked round. I had feared to recognise a policeman, but the first glance relieved me of that terror, A man moved by, wrapped in a thick ulster, and paid no heed to me. Once more I turned my eyes to the window, and once again the footsteps approached. This time I turned about almost unconsciously, and my gaze met his. I seemed to catch something significant in those steady, downcast eyes, and all of a sudden fell upon me a great fear. What if this were a detective officer?
At the thought I started away, and began to walk quickly along the pavement, without considering my destination. But even as I did so I became aware that the footsteps moved after me, and were drawing nearer from behind. I increased my pace, stimulated by the dread which had pursued me nightly for months, but the feet followed after. At one moment I consoled myself by attributing the facts to a coincidence, but at the next a desire for flight possessed me, and I looked vainly for a dark bye-way into which I might plunge, so that the Great City should swallow me up. In the midst of these growing fears one such alley came into the light; the black narrows of the passage beckoned me; I moved faster, wishing that I might take to my heels, and was on the point of slipping into the darkness when a hand struck heavily upon my shoulder.
I turned white in the gaslight, and faced him silently. Our eyes encountered once more, and he laughed slightly.
“So that's it? I thought so,” he said, in an indifferent voice. “No, my friend, I'm no detective.”
“What do you want with me?” I asked shortly, now that my fears were ended.
He said nothing for a moment, but scanned me from head to foot. “You look cold,” he said at last, “and are hungry, I guess. This is bad weather for hungry, homeless folk.”
“You did not stop me to tell me that,” I replied shortly.
“You are right,” he murmured slowly. “But I don't like to see hungry people. I thought you might carry a message for me.”
I suppose my eager glance betrayed the visitation of a hope, for he nodded as if in answer. “Come out of the rain,” he went on; “we can talk under shelter the better, and I've no doubt that you can swallow a glass of something.”
He moved away as he spoke, taking it for granted that I should follow, and in truth I had no desire but to do so. We went along the Strand, turned up a side street, and entered a wine-house, sparkling with the light from many gas-jets. A fire burned in a corner of the large room, and small marble tables were scattered about, occupied by groups in conversation. My companion ordered some sandwiches and whisky, and watched me as I ate. I strove to conceal the voracity with which the food was welcomed, but his cool grey eyes were set upon me, and seemed to read me through.
“You are a gentleman?” he said presently.
I answered nothing.
“Oh, it's of no account,” he went on leisurely; “I have a shrewd taste for faces. And we will call you Mr.....”
“My name is Glazebrook,” I said quickly.
“And mine is—Alabaster,” he said, with a broad smile.
He was a big, loosely-fashioned man of forty or thereby, and was dressed not too conspicuously after the last fashion. His nose was aquiline, and his hands were long and white; and every act and gesture had the air of deliberation. So we faced each other, the outlaw and the gentleman-at-ease.
“Come, I think it matters very little what we call each other,” resumed my companion pleasantly. “But I happen to be a Mr. Alabaster, and I should like you to remember the name. I am right in supposing that you are—hard up?”
His glance questioned me carelessly. “You have the evidence,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders.
“Pooh! many gentlemen are down on their luck at times,” he said, lighting a cigar, and offering me his case.
I shook my head: I had smoked no tobacco for weeks, and the sight of that sweet-smelling cigar unmanned me. He pressed it upon me, and I lighted it with tremulous fingers. Of a sudden I seemed to breathe a new atmosphere, and I was back among my old associations, in my chambers, my body ripe with food and wine, and the warmth of my own hearth.
“It is good,” observed Mr. Alabaster, regarding me; and quickly changed his tone to one of a businesslike sharpness. “And now, Mr.—Glazebrook, there is no necessity to keep you much longer. No doubt you are anxious to earn a few guineas, and I am in need of—some one who will carry out a piece of work.”
“I am most anxious and willing to do any work,” I replied.
“Good,” said he. “I have told you my name. You have heard of Hume & Alabaster, solicitors? No? Well, at any rate that is my firm. Solicitors, Mr. Glazebrook, have sometimes delicate situations to meet, delicate corners to turn. I fixed my eye on you as a likely man to-night.”
I murmured my satisfaction, for my heart beat heavily, as I wondered if my chance had come at last.
“When I take up a man,” went on Alabaster, “I ask no questions. I am not particular; and all I want is that he shall be able to do what I wish. Loyalty and competence are what I want—no more.”
He eyed me meaningly, and I felt that I winced. I was aware at what he hinted, and that he had indicated under his breath that he cared not though I were a gaol-bird.
“That is all right, then,” he continued, leaning back in his chair comfortably. “Well, Mr.—Glazebrook, let us say—my firm is the agent for Sir Henry Gorton's estates. It is a large matter, entailing a vast deal of trouble and time, and we make a good thing out of it. Sir Henry has been in India, and I regret to say that we have serious news of him. He is dangerously ill in Paris. You understand? Sir Henry, now, has a daughter, who, I believe, is a thoroughly nice girl, devoted to her father; and it is very reluctantly that we have been obliged to acquaint her with her father's illness. She should arrive in London to-morrow night.”
I looked at him expectantly: the fragrance of my cigar titillated my senses, and the spirit had warmed my blood.
“I want you to meet Miss Gorton,” said Alabaster—“that is, if you accept the service.”
“I will do it gladly,” I answered.
Alabaster pushed a sovereign across the table quietly. “I thought you would,” he said. “Keep that for expenses between now and then, and meet me here at six o'clock to-morrow.”
I took the sovereign, and he rose. “Good-bye, Mr. Glazebrook,” he said, smiling. “Don't forget the appointment.”
I followed him into the night; but, once outside, the rain brought me a clearer head. Between my fingers still remained the piece of gold, and I declare that I saw nothing and thought of nothing save what that signified. I had eaten a few sandwiches, but then I had fasted for two days; the whisky I had drunk was but an eddy in my brain, calling me forth to further glories. My mind, shifting in itself, went back, and I remembered so many suppers at this hotel or that restaurant. The gleam of lights invoked by my imagination stayed with me; I could hear the waiter shuffling on the silent floor; the chink of glasses was in my ear; and I walked down the Strand, a gentleman of means.
I came to rest at last in a restaurant under the railway arches of Charing Cross. The warmth of the great room, its sense of comfort, the dreadful pictures upon the distempered walls, moved me to a quiet peace which I had not tasted for months, and through which stirred a feeling of exaltation. A hot steak maître d'hôtel (how I remembered it!) a sweet which I ate with the zest of childhood, and cognac with my coffee. After these I drew my forgotten self-respect about me, with my poor rags, and regarded the company. They seemed very grand and fine to me, yet I suppose they were but ordinary citizens. The dinner had mounted me upon a new dignity. I had forgotten I was an exile, expatriated from the very shelter of justice. I remembered only what I had been, and what I should be.
Outside the weather had cleared; the march of night was visible in heaven, and I sought a boarding-house with the feelings of a prince.
Alabaster, as he called himself, kept his appointment on the following day, and once more we occupied a small table at the farther end of the room. His glance fell on my clothes, which I had adapted somewhat for the better, and he smiled.
“I had forgotten,” he observed: “perhaps I did not tell you. You are to be my clerk for the occasion, Mr. Glazebrook, and I like my clerks to dress”
The blood flamed in my face, and I could have struck him in my sudden fury.
“There, no offence!” he interposed quickly, “I am blunt sometimes. We can easily arrange that.” He took a five-pound note from his pocket-book. “These are necessary expenses, sir. What I pay you is another matter. I want your services for a few days, and I am willing to pay a sovereign a day. Is it a bargain?”
I answered hoarsely in the affirmative.
“Good once again. Here is the card of my firm. The lady you are to meet is Miss Gorton; the train arrives at 10 o'clock to-night at Waterloo. She will be expecting to be met. When you meet her,” he said slowly, “you will drive with her to No. 17, The Bank, N.W.”
I started. “The Bank!” I cried in amazement, well knowing, as does every Londoner, what reputation that infamous place had won.
“Why, sir, I speak clearly,” said Alabaster equably, but fixing me with his eyes. “An admirable woman, Miss Gray, will be awaiting her.” He paused. “Of course, if you do not care to undertake the business, say so and have done with it.”
I hesitated. I knew nothing of him, but I distrusted the man; yet the remnants of the gold were in my pockets and I held between my fingers a crumpled note. I had climbed back to some self-respect, to some comfort, and I dared not fall again into the mire. I clung with a passion to that “job,” which meant so much for me, and might be so innocent.
“What other orders have you?” I asked in a low voice,
He smiled faintly. I think the devil had given me that space of ease and good living that I might realise the magnitude of my former wretchedness.
“You will explain that Mr. Alabaster has been prevented from attending himself, but that you are his confidential clerk; that Sir Henry Gorton is still seriously ill, that there is some doubt as to whether he is not to be brought to London, and that, pending that decision, it will be advisable for her to remain here in comfortable quarters, where she will be kept acquainted by her father's solicitors—Messrs. Hume & Alabaster—of the turn of affairs. You will then take her to 17, The Bank.”
As Alabaster repeated this instruction he stared at me, but I did not wince, and, seeming to be satisfied, he turned away.
“By the way, better take this watch,” he said, handing me a gold repeater from his pocket. “And report to me at Charing Cross Station to-morrow morning at nine o'clock.”
He nodded and left me, and I stood contemplating the five-pound note which still rested in my hand. I was committed to the adventure now, and I swore that I would see it to the close. So I did, as you shall hear.
I was at Waterloo Station that evening before ten o'clock, and, having ascertained the proper platform, awaited the arrival of the train with mingled feelings. I was dressed anew, and, fresh from my toilet, moved among the people with a pleasant sense of recovered dignity. For some time I wandered through the confusion of the alighting passengers before I happened upon any one who answered to the description of Miss Gorton. But at last I discovered one who might be she, and who stood, seemingly perturbed and at a loss, beside her luggage.
“Is it Miss Gorton?” I asked, taking off my hat.
Her anxious glance alighted on me and gave place to satisfaction. “Yes,” she replied. “You are not Mr. Alabaster?”
“No, but I am sent by him,” I said. “He is unable to meet you himself, and I am asked to conduct you to the rooms he has taken for you.”
“Thank you,” she replied simply, and forthwith I gave some instructions to a porter.
Once safe in the cab, she turned to me prettily. “I am much obliged to you, sir,” she said. 'I am not very familiar with London. “To what hotel are we going?”
“Mr. Alabaster instructed me to take you to some rooms he has hired,” I answered.
“Rooms!” she echoed; and then, “It doesn't matter, I suppose. Perhaps it is better. If you are Mr. Alabaster's—clerk,” she hesitated, “perhaps you could tell me if there is any further news of my father?”
“Mr. Alabaster says he is still very ill,” said I slowly, “but there is some doubt as to whether he is not to be brought to London. Hence (he asked me to say) it would be advisable for you to remain in town until something definite is heard.”
You will perceive that I was carrying out my instructions to the letter; yet with each word, and with every moment, I distrusted Alabaster and regretted my mission the more. At the Bank, as that melancholy and shameless road was called, I stopped the cab and descended. A woman answered to a ring at the wicket-gate—a woman of middle age, handsome of a sort, and showily dressed in a gown of some pretensions.
“Is this the lady I am expecting?” she said.
I nodded. “I have instructions from Mr. Alabaster to”
“All right,” she interrupted briskly. “Let the cabman fetch in the things. Come in, miss.”
I waited. My task was over, yet I hesitated to leave. The thought of that quarter into which I had brought so young and innocent a girl stirred me into a feeling of repentance. As Miss Gorton entered the gate, the woman turned to me.
“All right. You're not wanted. You can go,” she said, with an unpleasant smile.
Something moved me to reply on the spur of the moment. “You are not the judge of that,” I said shortly. “I shall probably have a good deal further to do.”
She made no reply, but her eyelid shot down in a sharp wink; she shut the door with a click; and the last sight I had of Miss Gorton was of a tall, slight form slowly ascending the pathway to the house.
When I met Alabaster the next morning he held in his hand a couple of letters, and he greeted me cheerfully.
“Excellent, Mr. Glazebrook,” he said; and later, when we were seated at a bar, he turned the letters over in his hand thoughtfully. “Miss Gorton has a cousin in town,” he said, “and naturally she is anxious to see her in these distressing circumstances. But I am quite sure, Mr. Glazebrook,” and his eyes watched me, “that you will agree with me that it is not wise at present. She has written to Mrs. Sears-Martin, and expects a telegram from her to-day. Failing that, she will perhaps wish to go to her. I think she should not. Do you agree with me?”
“I know nothing of the matter,” I said sharply.
“Pardon me, sir, but I think it is to your interest to have an opinion,” he returned significantly. “You have that money to earn”
“I think, Mr. Alabaster,” I said bluntly, “that our arrangement had better terminate.”
“I was about to add, when you interrupted,” he went on coolly, “that there is another reason. Suppose, for example, I were to give you into custody?”
“You can suppose what you will,” I answered furiously. “I am done with you.”
“Stay, Mr. Whatever's-your-name,” he said, without emotion. “It is wiser for you to hear me out. No doubt, I am not aware what indiscretion—shall we say?—you have committed. But there are others who would perhaps recognise you better than I. In any case, a night in the police-station might be productive of some news,”
“On what ground could you give me in charge?” I asked defiantly.
“My dear sir,” said he pleasantly, “I have lost a watch with my initials on it—an excellent lever watch, which I value very highly.”
He stopped, and I was silent. I saw then, for the first time, with what kind of man I was dealing. He had no scruples; nay, and he prepared every part of his way. What was his purpose in this matter, I knew not. I could not even guess; but I was convinced that it was bad. Yet, I said nothing—I was in his hands only too securely.
“What do you wish me to do?” I asked presently.
“Capital,” he replied. “I think we are agreed. Very well. Your duties shall not be arduous, and your pay is generous, I am sure. I wish you to see Miss Gorton, to prevent her from visiting her cousin or any one else, and also to hint at some deeper trouble than her father's illness.”
“Be more specific,” I said hoarsely.
“Why, you have wits, man, or I would not have employed you,” he said. “On no account let her leave the house. Tell her that she may expect news at any moment, and tell her it is likely to be very grave. Her father's honour, rather than his health, is in question.”
“I understand,” I said. “And after?”
“You will report to me this evening.”
I left him in a very brilliant condition of anger, which I had controlled with difficulty. I was not afraid of him, though he was led to think so; and I felt at that moment that I hated him, and would circumvent him if I had any opportunity. But indeed. I knew nothing for certain, and, for all my suspicions, he might be engaged upon a legitimate task. But my suspicions deepened during that day, most of which I spent in the neighbourhood of The Bank. Miss Gorton was little more than a schoolgirl, slight, ignorant, and frightened. But she accepted what I told her without the faintest doubt, and I saw that she was torn only between fear and wonder. When I left that evening, the woman of the house put into my hands, with a significant grin, a stamped letter, addressed to Messrs. Hume & Alabaster.
“May as well save the stamp,” she said, laughing.
I knew what this must be, and by whom it had been written, and I understood how Alabaster had become possessed of the other letters. Here was the evident sign of foul play.
Alabaster was unusually gracious to me next day, and franker than his custom. “I declare, Mr. Glazebrook,” he said, “if this thing goes through, you will have earned your money. I'll double it, by Jove. See here. I want you to drop in to-morrow night at No. 17, about eleven. Take your cue from me and follow my lead. I shall be there, but I shan't be Mr. Alabaster—understand? No, I am Bannister henceforth, my dear sir, Pray keep that in your mind, Bannister!”
I pencilled the name on my cuff; and he nodded approval. He had dined, and was in admirable spirits. But I sat quiet, keeping my own counsel, experiencing towards him as deep a distaste as ever. He had pulled aside the mask, and I saw the ugly features of his conduct: they threatened; they were horrible and carnal. I think I did not sleep very long that night.
When I reached The Bank the next night, and had been admitted by the woman, I heard the noise of voices, and one that of Miss Gorton raised in agitation. I was free of the house, and I walked up the stairs and knocked upon the door of the room from which the sounds issued. There was no answer to my rap, and so I entered, The girl, white and agitated, stood in the middle of the floor, and Alabaster, or Bannister, was a little apart, gravity glowing in his face, mingled with a certain resolution. He turned to me and started.
“You are come in the nick of time, sir,” said he. “I believe you represent Mr. Alabaster, whose firm acts for Sir Henry Gorton?”
I bowed, wondering what would follow.
“Then you can tell this lady if what I say is true,” he added.
“It is not true; it can't be true,” she said, appealing to me in distress,
“I could best answer your questions, if I were to hear what this gentleman has told you,” I answered slowly, indicating Bannister.
He eyed me. “Let her say,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Mr. Bannister says that my father—is in trouble, and that I alone can help him,” she stammered.
“There is some truth in that,” I said, moistening my dry lips.
“'Truth' is an inadequate word,” interrupted Bannister, “I have known Sir Henry Gorton for many years, and have had the privilege of Miss Gorton's acquaintance for several. I think you might trust me to act for the best.”
The girl looked at me, her lip quivering fitfully, “What am I to do?” she cried, imploring me. “I don't .... oh, what would Mr. Alabaster advise?”
“What does this gentleman propose?” I said, still in a constrained voice, which perhaps sounded merely formal to others.
She said nothing, flushing over her whiteness; but Bannister spoke. “I propose that Miss Gorton should honour me by becoming my wife, seeing that by so doing she will secure her father's safety and honour. I would ask you, seeing you are in Messrs. Hume & Alabaster's confidence, if that is not the case?”
I made no reply. Out of the window, the blind of which was undrawn, I could see the faint bare shadows of the trees behind the house, that bordered the Canal.
“I ask you, is that not so?” demanded Bannister's voice again; and looking at him, I caught a menace and a passion of something in his eyes. Inspiration comes sharply, in the spur, I believe, of a necessity, I saw now what devilish business this man was plotting.
I turned from him to the girl, who hung upon my utterance. “It is quite true,” I said slowly.
She buried her face in her hands. A gleam flashed through Bannister's eyes. I turned and left the room.
Downstairs I waited, with the dreadful woman for company, until Bannister appeared. He was in capital spirits, and called for a bottle of champagne. I would have declined, but thought it wiser to humour him, and he toasted his future bride.
“There shall be no slip, Glazebrook,” said he: “we are to be married to-morrow. I have the special licence ready.”
Perhaps he would not have told me so much, had he been on his guard as usual, but he was too cheerful to take heed; and I believe that he held me in contempt, for a creature that was under his hand. I rose as if to go, and here suddenly fortune turned sharply in my favour.
“Wait outside, Glazebrook, for a moment,” he told me. “I will join you presently.”
He had some instructions for the woman, doubtless—the last ere this poor heiress should be trapped. Once out of doors I slipped round the house to the back, and glanced up at the window, bright with light, which looked out from the room in which Miss Gorton was. The house was of two storeys only. Scarcely twenty paces away rolled the slow waters of the Canal. What should be done must be done now, or not at all; for the marriage would take place upon the morrow, and if I knew Bannister, he would keep his victim in secure custody until then. But he was off his guard at the moment. If only he should be detained long enough!
I jumped upon the ironwork of the dismal verandah, and by a swift and silent effort clambered upon the battered tin roof. My head was now on the level of the window.
“Miss Gorton,” I called low—and again, “Miss Gorton!”
The girl rose from the sofa on which she had thrown herself, and looked at me, startled, wild-eyed, the stains of her weeping upon her cheeks.
“I have no time to explain,” I said. “You must trust me. You are the victim of a plot. Can you be ready at once and come with me?”
For an instant she hesitated, and then, “Yes,” she cried, and flew towards the door. In a little she had returned by the window, and put out her hands to me. Slowly, and very anxiously, I pulled her through, and she came out upon the roof; thence I guided her after me to the verandah-floor; and a second afterwards we were in the garden. I was aware there was no chance of escaping by the front gate, as, apart from the risk of being seen from the house, I had noticed a cab—Bannister's, of course—in the street without. The towing-path was our only chance, and I helped Miss Gorton quickly towards it. A fence of palings separated the garden from the path, and, climbing it, I sat awkwardly astride to assist the girl, As I reached down my arm, I heard a shout.
“Glazebrook! Damn you, you scoundrel!” and I was aware that the flight was discovered and that we were pursued. I dragged Miss Gorton roughly to the top of the fence, and together we reached the ground in a heap. I drew her to her feet, and, taking her arm, set out with all speed along the towing-path.
Behind, I was aware of feet that pursued, and these sounded in my ears as more than two: no doubt Bannister had his creatures—possibly the cabman was one. It was clear that we should be overtaken if we trusted to our heels, for the girl dragged on my arm, and, if it should come to a conflict, Bannister and his rogues, both of whom might be armed, were more than a match for me. In my despair I cast a glance down at the canal, in which the stars were shining dimly. It looked cold and black and cruel; but the glance turned the current of my plans. I stopped suddenly, drew the girl to the water, and stooping, pulled to me a small boat that was hobbled to the bank. In a minute more we were in the cockleshell, and she was in the middle of the ditch, just as two dark figures ran into view along the path.
An exclamation of fury announced that my manœuvre had been observed, but I cared little for that, and pulling at the oars drew under a bridge. It was now past midnight, and there was no one within sight or hearing. I was anxious to ground the boat on the opposite bank and escape that way, leaving the water between us and those rascals. But I very soon abandoned that intention, as I discovered the opposite shore to be steep and slippery, and to be surmounted by a high wall. When I came out from under the bridge, the two men were there, waiting. Clearly, they had not given up the chase, but aimed to stop me somewhere within that silent chasm. I pulled quickly; the men had disappeared; the night reigned placid in the sky. And suddenly before the boat loomed a mass of masonry. At the same time I perceived that the towing-path had come to an end. Gloom lay upon either hand. Then a voice rose, almost in my ears:—
“You fool, you're caught now!”
Bannister was within a few feet of me, leaning from the bank; I turned the boat towards the farther side, and became conscious of a movement in among the grasses there. In a moment I knew I was cut off from both banks; but what was before me?
I drove the boat into the centre of the stream, and pushed forward; the sculls dipped in the water heavily.
“Fool!” cried Bannister's voice: “you dare not go there.”
The next moment she had passed into a black, infernal stillness, close as the grave, and damp and rank of savour. With a shudder I had a thought. We were in the long tunnel which here receives the waters of that foul Acheron.
The girl had made no sign, and I believe that she had fainted; if so, she was spared the horror of that passage. The tunnel must have extended for more than half a mile, and the blackness was profound. Time after time the boat struck the masonry, but I pushed her off, and pulled on blindly, wildly, in the hope to arrive at the end and—air and the stars of heaven once more. I think, in looking back, that I must have taken an hour to get through, for when I emerged, and the thin radiance of the night was visible on the water beyond, a clock somewhere was striking one; and upon the towing-path on my right stood two dark figures.
Had they followed us even here? Were we never to be quit of them? In a deep gust of despair I turned the boat to the farther bank, ran her aground, and leaped out. As I did so I saw one of the figures jump into the canal. I seized the girl, and dragged her to land. Beyond a low railing fenced the street from the water. Half-dragging Miss Gorton, I surmounted this, and set off down the road. I was conscious of the pursuit, but dared not look behind. The road was empty at that late hour, but as I reached a turning I caught sight of a brougham standing before a house. I ran towards it, and, as I came abreast with my poor burden, the light within showed me an elderly man, with grey hair. A star shone in his coat. The coachman was moving his horses.
“Sir,” said I, breathless, and clutching at the window, “this lady is the daughter of Sir Henry Gorton, and she is in danger.”
He uttered an exclamation, but the door of the carriage fell open. I thrust the girl in.
“I have done my duty,” I said. “For God's sake, drive!” I shouted to the coachman, I caught an amazed and questioning glance from the old man; and then the brougham was flying down the road, and I was running—running—running from the vengeance behind me.