Within three hours of his ultimate destination! He knew all about great

cities. An hour after he left the train, if he so willed, he could lose

himself for all time.

From the bottom of the kitbag he dug up a blue velours case, which after

a moment's hesitation he opened. Medals incrusted with precious stones;

but on the top was the photograph of a charming girl, blonde as ripe

wheat, and arrayed for the tennis court. It was this photograph he

wanted. Indifferently he tossed the case upon the centre table, and it

upset, sending the medals about with a ring and a tinkle.

The man in the next room heard this sound, and his eye roved

desperately. Some way to peer into yonder room! But there was no

transom, and he would not yet dare risk the fire escape. The young man

raised the photograph to his lips and kissed it passionately.

Then he hid it in the lining of his coat, there being a convenient rent

in the inside pocket.

"I must not think!" he murmured. "I must not!"

He became the hunted man again. He turned a chair upend and placed

it under the window. He tipped another in front of the door. On the

threshold of the bathroom door he deposited the water carafe and the

glasses. His bed was against the connecting door. No man would be

able to enter unannounced. He had no intention of letting himself fall

asleep. He would stretch out and rest. So he lit his pipe, banked the

two pillows, switched out the light, and lay down. Only the intermittent

glow of his pipe coal could be seen. Near the journey's end; and no more

tight-rope walking, with death at both ends, and death staring up from

below. Queer how the human being clung to life. What had he to live

for? Nothing. So far as he was concerned, the world had come to an end.

Sporting instinct; probably that was it; couldn't make up his mind to

shuffle off this mortal coil until he had beaten his enemies. English

university education had dulled the bite of his natural fatalism. To

carry on for the sport of it; not to accept fate but to fight it.

By chance his hand touched his spiky chin. Nevertheless, he would have

to enter New York just as he was. He had left his razor in a Pullman

washroom hurriedly one morning. He dared not risk a barber's chair,

especially these American chairs, that stretched one out in a most

helpless manner.

Slowly his pipe sank toward his breast. The weary body was overcoming

the will. A sound broke the pleasant spell. He sat up, tense. Someone

had entered through the window and stumbled over the chair! Hawksley

threw on the light.




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