He wouldn’t commit suicide. Not if he knew it. He wouldstick on and laugh at them. And if he did have an occasionalpain inside， what of that？ Napoleon had them， and look at him.
He would be blowed if he committed suicide.
With the fire of a new resolve lighting up his eyes， he turnedto seize the six letters and rifle them of their contents.
They were gone.
It took Mr Meggs perhaps thirty seconds to recollect wherethey had gone to， and then it all came back to him. He hadgiven them to the demon Pillenger， and， if he did not overtakeher and get them back， she would mail them.
Of all the mixed thoughts which seethed in Mr Meggs’smind at that moment， easily the most prominent was thereflection that from his front door to the post office was a walkof less than five minutes.
* * * * *
Miss Pillenger walked down the sleepy street in the Junesunshine， boiling， as Mr Meggs had done， with indignation.
She， too， had been shaken to the core. It was her intention tofulfil her duty by posting the letters which had been entrustedto her， and then to quit for ever the service of one who， forsix years a model employer， had at last forgotten himself andshowed his true nature.
Her meditations were interrupted by a hoarse shout in herrear； and， turning， she perceived the model employer runningrapidly towards her. His face was scarlet， his eyes wild， and hewore no hat.
Miss Pillenger’s mind worked swiftly. She took in thesituation in a flash. Unrequited， guilty love had sapped MrMeggs’s reason， and she was to be the victim of his fury. Shehad read of scores of similar cases in the newspapers. Howlittle she had ever imagined that she would be the heroine ofone of these dramas of passion.
She looked for one brief instant up and down the street.
Nobody was in sight. With a loud cry she began to run.
“stop！”
It was the fierce voice of her pursuer. Miss Pillenger increasedto third speed. As she did so， she had a vision of headlines.
“stop！” roared Mr Meggs.
“UNREQUITED PASSION MADE THIS MAN MURDERER，” thoughtMiss Pillenger.
“stop！”
“CRAZED WITH LOVE HE SLAYS BEAUTIFUL BLONDE，” flashedout in letters of crimson on the back of Miss Pillenger’s mind.
“stop！”
“SPURNED， HE STABS HER THRICE.”
To touch the ground at intervals of twenty yards or so—thatwas the ideal she strove after. She addressed herself to it withall the strength of her powerful mind.
In London， New York， Paris， and other cities where life isbrisk， the spectacle of a hatless gentleman with a purple facepursuing his secretary through the streets at a rapid gallopwould， of course， have excited little， if any， remark. But inMr Meggs’s home-town events were of rarer occurrence. Thelast milestone in the history of his native place had been thevisit， two years before， of Bingley’s Stupendous Circus， whichhad paraded along the main street on its way to the next town，while zealous members of its staff visited the back premises ofthe houses and removed all the washing from the lines. Sincethen deep peace had reigned.
Gradually， therefore， as the chase warmed up， citizensof all shapes and sizes began to assemble. Miss Pillenger’sscreams and the general appearance of Mr Meggs gave foodfor thought. Having brooded over the situation， they decided atlength to take a hand， with the result that as Mr Meggs’s graspfell upon Miss Pillenger the grasp of several of his fellowtownsmenfell upon him.
“save me！” said Miss Pillenger.
Mr Meggs pointed speechlessly to the letters， which she stillgrasped in her right hand. He had taken practically no exercisefor twenty years， and the pace had told upon him.
Constable Gooch， guardian of the town’s welfare， tightenedhis hold on Mr Meggs’s arm， and desired explanations.
“He—he was going to murder me，” said Miss Pillenger.
“Kill him，” advised an austere bystander.
“What do you mean you were going to murder the lady？”
inquired
Constable Gooch.
Mr Meggs found speech.
“I—I—I—I only wanted those letters.”
“What for？”
“they’re mine.”
“You charge her with stealing ‘em？”
“He gave them me to post with his own hands，” cried MissPillenger.
“I know I did， but I want them back.”
By this time the constable， though age had to some extentdimmed his sight， had recognized beneath the perspiration，features which， though they were distorted， were neverthelessthose of one whom he respected as a leading citizen.
“Why， Mr Meggs！” he said.
This identification by one in authority calmed， if it a littledisappointed， the crowd. What it was they did not know， but， itwas apparently not a murder， and they began to drift off.
“Why don’t you give Mr Meggs his letters when he asksyou， ma’am？” said the constable.
Miss Pillenger drew herself up haughtily.
“Here are your letters， Mr Meggs， I hope we shall nevermeet again.”
Mr Meggs nodded. That was his view， too.
All things work together for good. The following morningMr Meggs awoke from a dreamless sleep with a feelingthat some curious change had taken place in him. He wasabominably stiff， and to move his limbs was pain， but down inthe centre of his being there was a novel sensation of lightness.
He could have declared that he was happy.
Wincing， he dragged himself out of bed and limped to thewindow. He threw it open. It was a perfect morning. A coolbreeze smote his face， bringing with it pleasant scents and thesoothing sound of God’s creatures beginning a new day.
An astounding thought struck him.
“Why， I feel well！”
Then another.
“It must be the exercise I took yesterday. By George， I’ll doit regularly.”
He drank in the air luxuriously. Inside him， the wild-cat gavehim a sudden claw， but it was a half-hearted effort， the effort ofone who knows that he is beaten. Mr Meggs was so absorbedin his thoughts that he did not even notice it.
“London，” he was saying to himself. “One of these physicalculture places…. Comparatively young man…. Put myself intheir hands….Mild， regular exercise….”
He limped to the bathroom.