"last monday i had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium den when i looked out of my window and saw, to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. i gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. i heard her voice downstairs, but i knew that she could not ascend. swiftly i threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. even a wife’s eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. but then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes might betray me. i threw open the window, reopening by my violence a small cut which i had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. then i seized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers which i had just transferred to it from the leather bag in which i carried my takings. i hurled it out of the window, and it disappeared into the thames. the other clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after i found, rather, i confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as mr. neville st. clair, i was arrested as his murderer.