Yet I couldn't be
convinced. It seemed as if a voice kept speaking in my ear, telling
me to be up and doing, or I would never sleep again.
The upshot was that about half-past nine I made up my mind to
go to Queen Anne's Gate. Very likely I would not be admitted, but
it would ease my conscience to try.
I walked down Jermyn Street, and at the corner of Duke Street
passed a group of young men. They were in evening dress, had
been dining somewhere, and were going on to a music-hall. One of
them was Mr Marmaduke jopley.
He saw me and stopped short.
'By God, the murderer!' he cried. 'Here, you fellows, hold him!
That's Hannay, the man who did the Portland Place murder!' He
gripped me by the arm, and the others crowded round.
I wasn't looking for any trouble, but my ill-temper made me play
the fool. A policeman came up, and I should have told him the
truth, and, if he didn't believe it, demanded to be taken to Scotland
Yard, or for that matter to the nearest police station. But a delay at
that moment seemed to me unendurable, and the sight of Marmie's
imbecile face was more than I could bear. I let out with my left,
and had the satisfaction of seeing him measure his length in the
gutter.
Then began an unholy row. They were all on me at once, and
the policeman took me in the rear. I got in one or two good blows,
for I think, with fair play, I could have licked the lot of them, but
the policeman pinned me behind, and one of them got his fingers
on my throat.
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