It was five weeks or more now that Edward Clay had been "wanted" for the revolting and mysterious murder at Manchester, known as the London-road murder. The police, said the Press, were "very reticent" on the subject, and for a good reason; they possessed not the faintest clue to Clay's whereabouts. Meanwhile he was living peaceably at a dingy little Temperance Hotel bin Bloomsbury, taking his walks abroad by daylight in his ordinary apparel, and quietly enjoying the proceeds of an embezzlement of £1,000. It was thanks, perhaps to his very ordinary appearance, that Clay had hitherto escaped police vigilance. Any man more like the general impression of man it would be difficult to imagine. He was a fourth-rate trainer by profession, but there was nothing at all horsey in his appearance. Then he was neither tall nor short, stout nor thin, fair nor dark, nor was there the faintest irregularity or peculiarity in his features. He wore a blue melton overcoat with velvet collar, a brown billycock, a white piqué tie with imitation pearl pin, and he usually carried the commonplace hazel stick that every other man in London carries. In short, his whole appearance was neutral and inconspicuous, and as he strolled down Baker-street, no human being on the pavement looked less like a notorious murderer than Edward Clay. But as he strolled down Baker-street, his eyes happened to wander up to a window. Two men were looking down into the street, one cadaverous, cleanshaven, his keen face full of power and intelligence, the other heavy, commonplace, good-natured, with a thick moustache hiding his indolent mouth. Clay recognised in the former a celebrated detective, and started slightly. Perhaps the start betrayed him. Both men suddenly disappeared from the window. Clay quickened his pace. After walking a hundred yards, he turned and saw both the men on the doorstep. They began to follow him briskly. Clay turned down the Marylebone road, and being no longer under observation ran hastily over to the St. John's Wood Station of the underground railway. He looked up at the clock — one minute to two; he had just time to catch the train. He took a ticket to Willesden, his intention being when there to walk over to the great junction, and get a North London train back to Broad-street. But would not the detective have time to be upon him before the train started? He looked cautiously out of the station entrance, and it was well for his safety that he did. The detective had divined his plan, and was just disappearing into the northern entrance of the "Circle" station, no doubt with the intention of finding his way to the St. John's Wood platform by a circuitous route and unexpectedly pouncing on his prey. The detective's friend was coming along the Marylebone-road towards the St. John's Wood Station. In thirty seconds more Clay's retreat would be completely cut off. If he went into the station, there he would find the detectives; if he waited where he was the detective's friend would soon be up with him. He turned, into the street, and began to walk briskly towards Portland-road. Arrived opposite the entrance to Madame Tussaud’s, Clay looked back. The detective's friend was following; his eyes were cast down; he was trying to look unconscious, and was really looking supremely self-conscious all the while. A "New-road" bus was passing. Clay deliberated as to jumping on to it, but pursuit would have been easy. At that instant the detective emerged from the St. John's Wood Station. Clay was seized with momentary panic and did a seemingly foolish thing; he darted into Madame Tussaud's. As he was paying his shilling, he realised that he had walked into a trap. In some confused way he still hoped to dodge behind the figures and escape. He walked quickly upstairs, and proceeded to the end room. Presently a smothered exclamation escaped him. There, very near the entrance to the Chamber of Horrors, was his own effigy in wax! There he stood, in blue melton overcoat and brown billycock and white pique tie, resting on his commonplace hazel. It was a wonderful piece of work. Clay had enjoyed reading its praises in the papers, but he was not prepared for so perfect a counterfeit presentment. And now a genuine inspiration occurred to him. He lifted the wax figure, carried it across the room, and hid it behind the effigy of a British peer in his flowing robes. It was only two in the afternoon; not a single visitor was in the place; a sleepy attendant was dozing at the other end of the room. He had been unobserved. Then he went back and put himself in the place of his own effigy, and gazed fixedly into space. He had not long to wait for his pursuers. The two men were soon standing in front of him. "Here's his effigy, at all events," observed the great detective. "It's the best bit of wax-work I've ever seen. I saw it last week, and that's how I recognised the man today; but, upon my word, it's even more lifelike than I thought." "Yes," replied the friend, "it's really wonderful. It's positively alive. The skin isn’t hard and shiny like wax. It really has that half-grimy look that the best of men get after running about Manchester for a day."