A fast train into Albany, on the New York Central, from the West. It was three-thirty of a March in the year of peace. A of over the world so that it the and hands and deposited a diamond upon wool. The station lights had the of stars, and like the were without refulgence—a aureola, three in diameter, and beyond, nothing. The who and the train itself had the same of fish in a aquarium.
Among the to was a man in a long black coat. The high was up. The man a hat, well upon his head, after the English mode. An English kitbag, and scarred, from his hand. He for the station and with his to it. He was almost invisible. He until the other past, until the red lights of the last coach into the deeps; then he for the to the street.
Away toward the end of the there appeared a in the fog. It and presently took upon itself the shape of a man. For one so and and thick his agility, for he the just as the other man stopped at the of a taxicab.
The fool! As if such a movement had not been anticipated. Sixteen thousand miles, always eastward, on horses, camels, donkeys, trains, and ships; China to the sea, over that to San Francisco, across this of and called the United States, always and toward New York—and the he escape! Thought he was flying, when in truth he was being toward a in which there would be no breach! Behind and in the was closing. Up to this hour he had been in contact. This was his act—thought the would as an cloak.
Meantime, the other man into the and the sleeping chauffeur.
“A hotel,” he said.
“Which one?”
“Any one will do.”
“Yes, sir. Two dollars.”
“When we arrive. No; I'll take the with me.” Inside the the chuckled. For those who there would be no fish in the net. This fog—like a hand from heaven!
Five minutes later the up in of a hotel. The unknown out, took a leather from his pocket and out in two and twenty cents, which he into the chauffeur's palm.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You are an American?”
“Sure! I was in this burg.”
“Like the idea?”
“Huh?”
“The idea of being an American?”
“I should say yes! This is one little o' mud, me! It's going to be in a little while, and then it will be some little old brick. Say, let me give you a tip! The in this joint is if you it out!”
Grinning, the on the power and away into the fog.
His late the vehicle with his until it the point, then he laughed. An American cockney! He and entered the hotel. He up to the and the sleeping clerk, who the register. The unknown without his name, which was John Hawksley. But he the of a second adding his place of residence—London.
“A room with a bath, if you please; second flight. Have the man call me at seven.”
“Yes, sir. Here, boy!”
Sleepily the the and the way to the elevator.
“Bawth!” said the night clerk, as the door to the latch. “Bawth! The old dear!”
He returned to his chair, that he would not be again until he was relieved.
What do we care, so long as we don't know? What's the to us but a shadow? The Odysseys that pass us every day, and we none the wiser!
The had not properly away into when he was again roused. Resentfully he opened his eyes. A with a of black rose and fell. Attached to this was an arm, and joined to that were shoulders. The clerk's trailing, sleep-befogged paused when it the newcomer's face. The and and upper lip were blue-black with a that extra-tempered once a day. Black that like opals, a bullet-shaped well cropped, and a nose in the nostrils. Because this second his well the was not able to the of the fanatic. Not unpleasant, not particularly agreeable; the of one to walk than into. The offered the register, and the man his name impatiently, the key, and to the elevator.
“Ah,” the clerk, “we have with us Mr. Poppy—Popo—” He at the close up. “Hanged if I can make it out! It looks like some new of soft drink we'll be having after July first. Greek or Bulgarian. Anyhow, he didn't for a bawth. Looks as if he needed one, too. Here, boy!”
“Ye-ah!”
“Take a at this John Hancock.”
“Gee! That must be the guy who makes that drink—Boolzac.”
The out, but missed the boy's by a hair. The boy off, grinning.
“Well, you me!”
“All right. If else comes in tell 'em we're full up. I'll be a to-morrow without my sleep.” The into his chair again and his to the radiator.
“Want me t' a pillow for yuh?”
“No talk!”—drowsily.
“Oh! boy, but I got one on you!”
“What?”
“This Boolzac guy didn't have no baggage, and give 'im the key without little ol' three-per in advance.”
“No grip?”
“Nix. Not a toot'brush in sight.”
“Well, the is done. I might as well go to sleep.”
It was not on the part of the to give the man the room that of Hawksley's. The key had been nearest his hand. But the man with when he noted that it was 214. He had taken particular pains to search the register for Hawksley's number the clerk. He hadn't on any such luck as this. His idea had been to watch the door of Room 212.
He had the foot, as they say. He moved about and without in the dark. Almost at once he approached one of the two doors and put his ear to the panel. Running water. The had time to take a bath!
A plan into his head. Why not end the here and now, and the for himself? What the if the fish into your hand? Wasn't this particularly his affair? It was the end, not the means. A close touch in Hong-Kong, but the had away. But there, in the next room, that he had escaped—it would be easy. The man to the window. Luck of luck, there was a fire-escape platform! He would let an hour pass, then he would act. The ape, with his British mannerisms! Death to the breed, and branch! He sat to wait.
On the other of the the his ablutions. His was graceful, vigorous, and youthful, a bronze. His nose was hawky; his a Latin brown, and roving, though there was a hint of in them, the pressure of long, hours of vigilance. His top was a black to curl; but the four days' of was as as a burr. In of this mark of there were of in the face. The of the and the shape of the were intellectual. The mouth was pleasure-loving, but the nose and the this.
After he had himself he for a leather which on the three-legged stool. It was a tobacco pouch, but there was something more than Saloniki. He the on his and at it as if it some to be let out. Presently he away from this and his body, closed—like a man pain.
“God's on them!” he whispered, opening his eyes. He the swiftly, as though he it to the floor; but his arm gently. After all, he would be a to them. They were and butter.
He would soon have their in money—money that would no terrible recollections.
Strange that every so often, despite the horror, he had to take them out and at them. He sat upon the stool, spread a across his knees, and opened the pouch. He out a roll of wool, which he across the towel. Flames! Blue flames, red, yellow, violet, and green—precious stones, many of them with that into the centuries, of and and envy. The man had imagination—perhaps too much of it. He saw the upon white and bosoms; he saw and hands, the red of towns; he the of and the of men. Murder and loot.
At the end of the two about the size of and an in thickness, polished, and as green as a in the sun, fit for the of Schariar, of Scheherazade.
Rodin would have upon the man's attitude—the body, the face—hewn it out of marble and called it Conscience. The of the this for three or four minutes. Then he rolled up the wool, it into the pouch, which he to his by a thong, and to his feet. No more of this brooding; it was his vitality; and he was not yet at his journey's end.
He to the bedroom, the kitbag, and to dress. He put on walking shoes, stockings, knickerbockers, shirt, and a Norfolk jacket the third button.
Ah, that button! He the which had the to the wool. The of a tailor had saved his life. Had that held, his at this moment would be on the in far-away Hong-Kong. Evidently Fate had some plans his future, else he would not be in this room, alive. But what plans? Why should Fate about him further? She had the orange to the last drop. Why protect the pulp? Perhaps she was only making sport of him, him into the that he might win through. One thing, she would be able to his again. You cannot a cup with water the brim. And God that his cup had been full and and red.
His hand across his as if to away the pictures up. He must keep his off those things. There was a of in his blood, and times he had the at his feet. But God had been to him in one respect: The blood of his mother predominated.
How many were after him, and who? He had not been able to the man that night in Hong-Kong. That was the of the pursued: one pause to look back, while the had their man them always. If only he have through into Greece, England would have been easy. The only door open had been in the East. It that he should be in this room, but three hours from his goal.
America! The land of the free and the brave! And the of it was that he must in America the only friends he had in the world. All the Englishmen he had and loved were dead. He had friends with the French, though he loved France. In this country alone he might himself and life anew. The British were British and the French were French; but in this America they the of the one and the of the other—these joyous, unconquered, speed-loving Americans.
He took up the overcoat. Under the light it was no longer black but a very green. On there were narrow of a still green, that gold or had once the cuffs. Inside, soft Persian lamb; and he ran his over the thoughtfully. The was still with the of horse. He it aside, to touch it again. From the small he a black and opened it. That passport! He if there another more forged. It would not have an hour west of the Hindenburg Line; but in the East and here in America no one had questioned it. In San Francisco they had at it, peace having come. Besides this the a will, ten bonds, a appraiser's receipt and a of gold bills. The will, however, was one of the most documents conceivable. It left to Capt. John Hawksley the of the wallet!
Within three hours of his destination! He all about great cities. An hour after he left the train, if he so willed, he himself for all time.
From the of the he up a case, which after a moment's he opened. Medals with stones; but on the top was the photograph of a girl, as wheat, and for the tennis court. It was this photograph he wanted. Indifferently he the case upon the centre table, and it upset, sending the about with a ring and a tinkle.
The man in the next room this sound, and his desperately. Some way to into room! But there was no transom, and he would not yet the fire escape. The man the photograph to his and it passionately.
Then he it in the of his coat, there being a rent in the pocket.
“I must not think!” he murmured. “I must not!”
He the man again. He a chair and it under the window. He another in of the door. On the of the door he deposited the water and the glasses. His was against the door. No man would be able to enter unannounced. He had no of himself asleep. He would out and rest. So he his pipe, the two pillows, out the light, and down. Only the of his pipe be seen. Near the journey's end; and no more tight-rope walking, with death at ends, and death up from below. Queer how the being to life. What had he to live for? Nothing. So as he was concerned, the world had come to an end. Sporting instinct; that was it; couldn't make up his mind to off this until he had his enemies. English education had the bite of his natural fatalism. To on for the sport of it; not to accept but to it.
By his hand touched his chin. Nevertheless, he would have to enter New York just as he was. He had left his in a Pullman one morning. He not a barber's chair, these American chairs, that one out in a most manner.
Slowly his pipe toward his breast. The was the will. A the spell. He sat up, tense. Someone had entered through the window and over the chair! Hawksley on the light.
