What had actually beaten him was not to have known if someone had picked up his trail. By this time Capes’ hair had bleached nearly white, and his skin had become a skin of red copper shot with gold. He opened the drawer of the writing table. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position.
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