The neatness with which the escape was executed
points to the disquieting conclusion that they did not want for
assistance."
"I'll ask you to excuse me," said Sam, rising abruptly and leaving
the room. A sick terror possessed his heart; visions of the dock and
the felon's cell followed him as he picked up his hat and crept into
the street. Outside, the morning was serene, with the promise of a
broiling noon; but as far as Sam was concerned, Egyptian darkness
would have been better. He shivered: at the corner of the street he
met the local policeman and winced.
But far, far worse was it with Mr. Moggridge, to whose lodgings his
steps were bending. The Poet, as Sam entered, was seated as nearly
as possible on the small of his back before the breakfast table.
If mental anguish can be expressed by unkempt hair and a disordered
cravat, that of Mr. Moggridge was extreme; and the untasted bloater,
pushed aside and half concealed by the newspaper, was full of lurid
significance.
Sam paused at the door. The two friends had barely spoken for more
than a month. Three days ago they had all but fought. All this,
however, was forgotten now.
"Is that you, Sam? Come in."
Then, having displayed the olive-branch, the Poet waved the newspaper
feebly, and groaned.
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