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.