"To see Mr. Wells, of course, Mrs. Underwood. To ask him the name of a good maker of time machines."
"In my age, there are no such things as time machines. If this acquaintance of yours told you that, he was probably having some sort of joke with you."
"Oh, no. Our conversation was most serious. He was one of the few people I have met in your world who seemed to know exactly what I was talking about."
"He was doubtless humouring you. Where did this conversation take place?"
"On the train. And what a marvellous experience that was, in its own right. I shall be making plenty of modifications as soon as we return."
"Then you have no means, as yet, of escaping to your original period?"
"Well, no, but I can't see any difficulty, really."
"There could be difficulties for both of us if Maude Emily, as I suspect, went for a policeman. If my husband has not had time to calm down he will inform the policeman, when he arrives, that an escaped murderer and his female accomplice are even now in the vicinity of Bromley — and that the man is armed. What was that thing you were waving, anyway?"
"The deceptor-gun? Would you like me to demonstrate it?"
"I think not."
From the distance the silence of the night was broken by the sound of a high-pitched whistling.
"The police!" gasped Mrs. Underwood. "It is as I feared." She clutched his arm, then removed her hand almost immediately. "If they find you, you are doomed!"
"Why so? You refer to the gentlemen with the helmets who helped me before. They will have access to a time machine. It was thanks to them, after all, that I was able to return to my own age on my previous visit."
She ignored him, pushing him through a gate and into a field. It smelled sweet and he paused to take the scent into his lungs. "There is no question," he began, "that I have much to learn. Smells, for instance, are generally missing in my reproductions, and when they do exist they lack subtlety. If there were only some way of recording…"
"Silence!" she whispered urgently. "See, they are coming this way." She pointed back to the road. A number of small, dancing lights were in evidence. "It is their bullseyes. The whole of the Bromley constabulary must be on your trail!"
Again a whistle sounded. They crouched behind the hedge, listening to the swish of bicycle tyres over the unmade road.
"They'll be making for the railway station, that's my guess," said a gruff voice. "They'd be fools to head for open countryside. We're on a wild-goose chase."
"You can never be sure about madmen," said another voice. "I was part of the lot what tracked down the Lewisham Murderer three years ago. They found 'im cool as a cucumber in a boarding 'ouse not five streets away from the scene of the crime. 'E'd bin there for a fortnight, while we raced about half of Kent night and day catching nothing but colds in the 'ead."
"I still think they'll try for a train. That bloke said 'e came on the train."
"We're not entirely sure it was the same man. Besides, 'e said two men, obviously friends, got off the train. What 'appened to the other?"
"I don't believe 'e did come on the train."
"What's 'e doin' in Bromley, any'ow?" said a third voice complainingly.
"Come back for 'is bit o' stuff — you know what some women're like — go 'ead over 'eels for that sort. I've seen it before — perficktly decent women brought low by a smooth-talking villain. If she ain't careful I'd say she'll be 'is next victim."
"Often the way it goes," another agreed.
They passed out of earshot. Mrs. Underwood seemed to have a high colour again. "Really!" she said. "So I already have a reputation as the consort of criminals. Mud sticks, as they say. Well, Mr. Carnelian, you will never understand the damage you have done, I know, but I am currently very much regretting that I allowed my better nature to take me to the Old Bailey in your defence! Even at the time, there was a hint of gossip — but now — well, I shall have to consider leaving the country. And poor Harold — why should he be made to suffer?"
"Leaving? Good." He stood up, brushing pieces of straw from his trousers. "Now, let's go and find Mr. Wells."
"Mr. Carnelian — it is really far too dangerous. You heard those policemen. The station is being watched. They are combing Bromley for us!"
Jherek was still puzzled. "If they wish to talk to us, why do we not let them? What harm can they do us?"
"Considerable harm, Mr. Carnelian. Take my word for it."
He shrugged. "Very well, Mrs. Underwood, I shall. However, there is still the question of Mr. Wells…"
"I assure you, also, that this Mr. Wells of yours can be nothing but a charlatan. Time machines do not exist in this century."
"I believe he has written a book on them."
Understanding dawned. She frowned. "There was a book. I read about it last year. A fantasy. Fiction. It was nothing but fiction!"
"What is 'fiction'?"
"A made-up story — about things which are not real."
"Everything, surely, is real? "
"About things which do not exist…" She was labouring, trying to find the right words.
"But time machines do exist. You know that, Mrs. Underwood, as well as I do!"
"Not yet," she said. "Not in 1896."
"Mr. Wells suggested otherwise. Who am I to believe?"
"You love me?"
"You know that I do."
"Then believe me ," she said firmly, and she took his hand and led him across the field.
Some time later, they lay in a dry ditch, looking at the outline of a building Mrs. Underwood had described as a farmhouse. Once or twice they had seen the lights of the policemen's lanterns some way off, but now it seemed their pursuers had lost the trail. Jherek was still not entirely convinced that Mrs. Underwood had interpreted the situation correctly.
"I distinctly heard one of them say they were looking for geese," he informed her. She seemed tired from all the running about and her eyes kept closing as she tried to find a more comfortable position in the ditch. "Geese, and not people."
"We must get the assistance of some influential man, who will take up your case, perhaps be able to convince the authorities of the truth." She had pointedly ignored almost all his comments since they had left the house. "I wonder — this Mr. Wells is a writer. You mentioned his reference to the Saturday Review ? That is quite a respectable journal — or at least it used to be. I haven't seen a copy for some time. If he could publish something — or if he has friends in the legal profession. Possibly it would be a good idea to try to see him, after all. If we hide in that barn during the night and leave early in the morning, we might be able to get to him after the police have decided we have made our escape."
Wearily, she rose. "Come along, Mr. Carnelian." She began to tramp across the field towards the barn.
In approaching the barn, they had to pass close to the farmyard and now several dogs began to bark excitedly. An upper window was flung open, a lantern blazed, a deep voice called: "Who is it? What is it?"
"Good evening to you," cried Jherek. Mrs. Underwood tried to cover his mouth with her hand but it was too late. "We are out for a stroll, sampling the joys of your countryside. I must congratulate you…"
"By cracky, it's the lunatic!" explained the unseen man. "The one we were warned was on the loose. I'll get my gun!"
"Oh, this is unbearable!" wept Mrs. Underwood. "And look!"
Three or four lights could be seen in the distance.
"The police?"
"Without doubt."
From the farmhouse came a great banging about, shouts and barkings, and lights appeared downstairs. Mrs. Underwood grabbed Jherek by the sleeve and drew him inside the first building. In the darkness something snorted and stamped.