There was, however, no time for a letter, and
anarchists never use the telegraph, especially so far as the Continent
is concerned, unless in cases of the greatest emergency. If they
telegraphed my description to Brussels the chances were it would not
be an anarchist who watched my landing, but a member of the Belgian
police force.
The 8.30 Continental express does not stop between Liverpool Street
and Parkeston Quay, which it is timed to reach three minutes before
ten. This gave me an hour and a half in which to change my apparel.
The garments of the poor old professor I rolled up into a ball one by
one and flung out through the open window, far into the marsh past
which we were flying in a pitch dark night. Coat, trousers, and
waistcoat rested in separate swamps at least ten miles apart. Gray
whiskers and gray wig I tore into little pieces, and dropped the bits
out of the open window.
I had taken the precaution to secure a compartment in the front of
the train, and when it came to rest at Parkeston Quay Station, the
crowd, eager for the steamer, rushed past me, and I stepped out into
the midst of it, a dapper, well-dressed young man, with black beard
and moustaches, my own closely cropped black hair covered by a new
bowler hat.
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