n of his idea--all the way up the east side and
around the turn at the north end. As the car, now south-bound, swung up
the hill near One Hundred and Fifth Street, at whose crest there is
a sharp curve with thick-growing, overhanging trees, Larry opened the
right door and said:

"Show me a little speed, driver, as soon as you pass this curve!"

"I gotcha," replied the chauffeur.

The slowing car hugged the inside of the sharp turn, Larry holding the
door open and waiting his moment. The instant the taxi made the curve
Lefty's car was cut from view; and that instant Larry sprang from the
running-board, slamming the door behind him, landed on soft earth and
scuttled in among the trees. Crouching in the shadows he saw his car
speed away as per his orders, and the moment after he saw Lefty's car,
evidently taken by surprise by this obvious attempt at escape, leap
forward in hot pursuit.

Larry slipped farther in among the trees and sat down, his back against
a tree. This was better. For the time he was safe.

He drew a long breath. Then for a moment what he had just been through
this last hour came back to him in an almost amusing light: as something
grotesquely impossible--much like those helter-skelter, utterly unreal
chases which, with slight variations of personalities and costumes, were
the chief plots for the motion-picture drama in its crude childhood. But
though there seemed a likeness, there was a tremendous difference. For
this was real! Every one was in earnest!

Again he thought of Maggie. What would she think, what would be her
attitude, if she knew the truth about him?--the truth about those she
had gone with and the life she had gone into? Would she be inclined
toward HIM, would she help him?...

Again he thought of what he should do. Now that he commanded a composure
which had not been his during the stress of his flight, he examined
every aspect with greater care. But the conclusions of composure were
the same as those of excitement. He could not gain entrance to one
of the great hotels and remain in his room, unidentified among its
thousands of strangers; he could not find asylum in one of his old
haunts; he dared not try to leave Manhattan. He was a prisoner, whose
only privilege was a larger but most uncertain liberty.

And that liberty was becoming penetratingly uncomfortable. An hour had
passed, the ground on which he sat was wet and cold, and the misty air
was assuming a distressing kinship w