Zachariah, when he reached home, found his wife
gone. A note lay for him there, probably from the same hand which
warned the Major, telling him not to lose an instant, but to join in
Islington one of the mails to Manchester. His wife would start that
night from St. Martin's le Grand by a coach which went by another
road. He was always prompt, and in five minutes he was out of the
house. The fare was carefully folded by his unknown friend in the
letter. He just managed as directed, to secure a place, not by the
regular Manchester mail, but by one which went through Barnet and
stopped to take up passengers at the "Angel." He climbed upon the
roof, and presently was travelling rapidly through Holloway and
Highgate. He found, to his relief, that nobody had heard of the
murder, and he was left pretty much to his own reflections. His
first thoughts were an attempt to unravel the mystery. Why was it so
sudden? Why had no word not hint of what was intended reached him?
He could not guess. In those days the clubs were so beset with spies
that frequently the most important resolutions were taken by one man,
who confided in nobody. It was winter, but fortunately Zachariah was
well wrapped up.
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