"What a mess this is," he thought. "What a hash I've made of it. What
a cruel thing to happen to me. What an awful hole I've put myself
into."
The train swept onward, and he began to doze. Then after a while he
slept and dreamed. He dreamed that he was here in this train, not
fettered, but spell-bound, unable to move and hide, only able to
understand what was happening and to suffer from his perception of the
hideous predicament that he was in. Another train, on another of the
four tracks, was racing after this train, was overhauling it, was
infallibly catching it. Mysteriously he could see into this following,
hunting train--it was a train full of policemen, magistrates, wardens,
judges, hangmen: all the offended majesty of the law.
He woke shivering, after this first taste of a murderer's dreams. His
punishment had begun.
It was daylight at Waterloo, and he slunk in terror; but things had to
be done. He washed himself as well as he could, took off his dirty
canvas, got his bag from the cloak-room and hurried away. No questions
were asked, no bones made about giving him a room at a house in
Stamford Street; and he at once went to bed and slept profoundly.
When he woke this time he was quite calm, and able to think clearly
again.
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