The train began to slow down. They might be waiting for me at the next station, he thought. I wish I had a weapon. Does the detective have a gun? I doubt it. I could break the window and use a shard of glass to cut his throat-but that would surely draw a crowd.

I must get off the train.

A few houses could be seen alongside the railway track. They were coming into a village or a small town. The brakes of the train squealed, and a station slid into view. Feliks watched intently for signs of a police trap. The platform appeared empty. The locomotive shuddered to a halt with a hiss of steam.

People began to get off. A handful of passengers walked past Feliks’s window, heading for the exit: a family with two small children, a woman with a hatbox, a tall man in tweeds.

I could hit the detective, he thought, but it’s so hard to knock somebody unconscious with just your fists.

The police trap could be at the next station. I must get off now. A whistle blew.

Feliks stood up.

The detective looked startled.

Feliks said: “Is there a toilet on the train?”

The detective was thrown by this. “Er… sure to be,” he said.

“Thank you.” He doesn’t know whether to believe me, Feliks thought.

He stepped out of the compartment and into the corridor.

He ran to the end of the carriage. The train chuffed and jerked forward. Feliks looked back. The detective poked his head out of the compartment. Feliks went into the toilet and came back out again. The detective was still watching. The train moved a little faster. Feliks went to the carriage door. The detective came running.

Feliks turned back and punched him full in the face. The blow stopped the detective in his tracks. Feliks hit him again, in the stomach. A woman screamed. Feliks got him by the coat and dragged him into the toilet. The detective struggled and threw a wild punch, which caught Feliks in the ribs and made him gasp. He got the detective’s head in his hands and banged it against the edge of the washbasin. The train picked up speed. Feliks banged the detective’s head again, and then again. The man went limp. Feliks dropped him and stepped out of the toilet. He went to the door and opened it. The train was moving at running speed. A woman at the other end of the corridor watched him, white-faced. Feliks jumped. The door banged shut behind him. He landed running. He stumbled and regained his balance. The train moved on, faster and faster.

Feliks walked to the exit.

“You left it a bit late,” said the ticket man.

Feliks nodded and handed over his ticket.

“This ticket takes you three more stations,” the ticket man said.

“I changed my mind at the last minute.”

There was a squeal of brakes. They both looked along the track. The train was stopping: someone had pulled the emergency brake. The ticket man said: “Here, what’s going on?”

Feliks forced himself to shrug unconcernedly. “Search me,” he said. He wanted to run, but that would be the worst thing he could do.

The ticket man hovered, torn between his suspicion of Feliks and his concern for the train. Finally he said, “You wait here,” and ran along the platform. The train stopped a couple of hundred yards out of the station. Feliks watched the ticket man run to the end of the platform and down on to the embankment.

He looked around. He was alone. He walked briskly out of the station and into the town.

A few minutes later a car with three policemen in it went past him at top speed, heading for the station.

On the outskirts of the town Feliks climbed over a gate and went into a wheatfield, where he lay down to wait for nightfall.

The big Lanchester roared up the drive to Walden Hall. All the lights were on in the house. A uniformed policeman stood at the door, and another was patrolling, sentry-fashion, along the terrace. Pritchard brought the car to a halt. The policeman at the entrance stood to attention and saluted. Pritchard opened the car door and Walden got out.

Mrs. Braithwaite, the housekeeper, came out of the house to greet him. “Good evening, my lord.”

“Hello, Mrs. Braithwaite. Who’s here?”

“Sir Arthur is in the drawing room with Prince Orlov.”

Walden nodded and they entered the house together. Sir Arthur Langley was the Chief Constable and an old school friend of Walden’s.

“Have you dined, my lord?” said Mrs. Braithwaite.

“No.”

“Perhaps a piece of game pie, and a bottle of burgundy?”

“I leave it to you.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Mrs. Braithwaite went away and Walden entered the drawing room. Aleks and Sir Arthur were leaning on the mantelpiece with brandy glasses in their hands. Both wore evening dress.

Sir Arthur said: “Hello, Stephen. How are you?”

Walden shook his hand. “Did you catch the anarchist?”

“I’m afraid he slipped through our fingers-”

“Damnation!” Walden exclaimed. “I was afraid of that! No one would listen to me.” He remembered his manners, and shook hands with Aleks. “I don’t know what to say to you, dear boy-you must think we’re a lot of fools.” He turned back to Sir Arthur. “What the devil happened, anyway?”

“Feliks hopped off the train at Tingley.”

“Where was Thomson’s precious detective?”

“In the toilet with a broken head.”

“Marvelous,” Walden said bitterly. He slumped into a chair.

“By the time the town constabulary had been roused, Feliks had melted away.”

“He’s on his way here-do you realize that?”

“Yes, of course,” said Sir Arthur in a soothing tone.

“Your men should be instructed that next time he is sighted he’s to be shot.”

“Ideally, yes-but of course they don’t have guns.”

“They damn well should have!”

“I think you’re right, but public opinion-”

“Before we discuss that, tell me what is being done.”

“Very well. I’ve got five patrols covering the roads between here and Tingley.”

“They won’t see him in the dark.”

“Perhaps not, but at least their presence will slow him down, if not stop him altogether.”

“I doubt it. What else?”

“I’ve brought a constable and a sergeant to guard the house.”

“I saw them outside.”

“They’ll be relieved every eight hours, day and night. The Prince already has two bodyguards from the Special Branch, and Thomson is sending four more down here by car tonight. They’ll take twelve-hour shifts, so he’ll always have three men with him. My men aren’t armed but Thomson’s are-they have revolvers. My recommendation is that until Feliks is caught, Prince Orlov should remain in his room and be served his food and so on by the bodyguards.”

Aleks said: “I will do that.”

Walden looked at him. He was pale but calm. He’s very brave, Walden thought. If I were he, I should be raging about the incompetence of the British police. Walden said: “I don’t think a few bodyguards is enough. We need an army.”

“We’ll have one by tomorrow morning,” Sir Arthur replied. “We’re mounting a search, beginning at nine o’clock.”

“Why not at dawn?”

“Because the army has to be mustered. A hundred and fifty men will be coming here from all over the county. Most of them are now in bed-they have to be visited and given their instructions, and they have to make their ways here.”

Mrs. Braithwaite came in with a tray. There was cold game pie, half a chicken, a bowl of potato salad, bread rolls, cold sausages, sliced tomatoes, a wedge of Cheddar cheese, several kinds of chutney and some fruit. A footman followed with a bottle of wine, a jug of milk, a pot of coffee, a dish of ice cream, an apple tart and half of a large chocolate cake. The footman said: “I’m afraid the burgundy hasn’t had time to breathe, my lord-shall I decant it?”

“Yes, please.”

The footman fussed with a small table and a place setting. Walden was hungry but he felt too tense to eat. I don’t suppose I shall be able to sleep, either, he thought.