With considerable difficulty I undressed the corpse, and
clothed it anew in my own garments.  Any one who has valeted
a dead Salvation Army captain in an uncertain light will
appreciate the difficulty.  With the idea, presumably, of
inducing the doctor's wife to leave her husband's roof-tree
for some habitation which would be run at my expense, I had
crammed my pockets with a store of banknotes, which
represented a good deal of my immediate worldly wealth.
When, therefore, I stole away into the world in the guise of
a nameless Salvationist, I was not without resources which
would easily support so humble a rle for a considerable
period.  I tramped to a neighbouring market-town, and, late
as the hour was, the production of a few shillings procured
me supper and a night's lodging in a cheap coffee-house.
The next day I started forth on an aimless course of
wandering from one small town to another.  I was already
somewhat disgusted with the upshot of my sudden freak; in a
few hours' time I was considerably more so.  In the
contents-bill of a local news sheet I read the announcement
of my own murder at the hands of some person unknown; on
buying a copy of the paper for a detailed account of the
tragedy, which at first had aroused in me a certain grim
amusement, I found that the deed was ascribed to a wandering
Salvationist of doubtful antecedents, who had been seen
lurking in the roadway near the scene of the crime.  I was
no longer amused.  The matter promised to be embarrassing.
What I had mistaken for a motor accident was evidently a
case of savage assault and murder, and, until the real
culprit was found, I should have much difficulty in
explaining my intrusion into the affair.  Of course I could
establish my own identity; but how, without disagreeably
involving the doctor's wife, could I give any adequate
reason for changing clothes with the murdered man?  While my
brain worked feverishly at this problem, I subconsciously
obeyed a secondary instinct---to get as far away as possible
from the scene of the crime, and to get rid at all costs of
my incriminating uniform.  There I found a difficulty.  I
tried two or three obscure clothes shops, but my entrance
invariably aroused an attitude of hostile suspicion in the
proprietors, and on one excuse or another they avoided
serving me with the now ardently desired change of clothing.
The uniform that I had so thoughtlessly donned seemed as
difficult to get out of as the fatal shirt of---You know, I
forget the creature's name.''

  ``Yes, yes,'' said the Chaplain hurriedly. ``Go on with
your story.''

  ``Somehow, until I could get out of those compromising
garments, I felt it would not be safe to surrender myself to
the police.  The thing that puzzled me was why no attempt
was made to arrest me, since there was no question as to the
suspicion which followed me, like an inseparable shadow,
wherever I went.  Stares, nudgings, whisperings, and even
loud-spoken remarks of `that's 'im' greeted my every
appearance, and the meanest and most deserted eating-house
that I patronized soon became filled with a crowd of
furtively watching customers.  I began to sympathize with
the feelings of Royal personages trying to do a little
private shopping under the unsparing scrutiny of an
irrepressible public.  And still, with all this inarticulate
shadowing, which weighed on my nerves almost worse than open
hostility would have done, no attempt was made to interfere
with my liberty.  Later on I discovered the reason.  At the
time of the murder on the lonely highway a series of
important blood-hound trials had been taking place in the
near neighbourhood, and some dozen and a half couples of
trained animals had been put on the track of the supposed
murderer---on my track.  One of our most public-spirited
London dailies had offered a princely prize to the owner of
the pair that should first track me down, and betting on the
chances of the respective competitors became rife throughout
the land.  The dogs ranged far and wide over about thirteen
counties, and though my own movements had become by this
time perfectly well known to police and public alike, the
sporting instincts of the nation stepped in to prevent my
premature arrest.  `Give the dogs a chance,' was the
prevailing sentiment, whenever some ambitious local
constable wished to put an end to my drawn-out evasion of
justice.  My final capture by the winning pair was not a
very dramatic episode, in fact, I'm not sure that they would
have taken any notice of me if I hadn't spoken to them and
patted them, but the event gave rise to an extraordinary
amount of partisan excitement.  The owner of the pair who
were next nearest up at the finish was an American, and he
lodged a protest on the ground that an otterhound had
married into the family of the winning pair six generations
ago, and that the prize had been offered to the first pair
of bloodhounds to capture the murderer, and that a dog that
had one sixty-fourth part of otterhound blood in it couldn't
technically be considered a bloodhound.  I forget how the
matter was ultimately settled, but it aroused a tremendous
amount of acrimonious discussion on both sides of the
Atlantic.  My own contribution to the controversy consisted
in pointing out that the whole dispute was beside the mark,
as the actual murderer had not yet been captured; but I soon
discovered that on this point there was not the least
divergence of public or expert opinion.  I had looked
forward apprehensively to the proving of my identity and the
establishment of my motives as a disagreeable necessity; I