(at a casual glance) strolled with bent
head, black sombrero, spectacles and frock-coat, first through the cold
corridors and presently along the streets.

The heat of the pavement striking to his soles was the first of a
hundred exquisite sensations; but Stingaree did not permit himself to
savor one of them. Indeed, he had his work cut out to check the pace his
heart dictated; and it was by admirable exercise of the will that he
wandered along, deep to all appearance in a Camelot Classic which he had
found in the criminologist's pocket; in reality blinded by the glasses,
but all the more vigilant out of the corners of his eyes.

A suburb was the scene of these perambulations; had he but dared to lift
his face, Stingaree might have caught a glimpse of the bluest of blue
water; and his prison eyes hungered for the sight, but he would not
raise his eyes so long as footsteps sounded on the same pavement. By
taking judicious turnings, however, he drifted into a quiet road, with
gray suburban bungalows on one side and building lots on the other. No
step approached. He could look up at last. And the very bungalow that he
was passing was shut up, yet furnished; the people had merely gone away,
servants and all; he saw it at a glance from the newspapers plastering
the windows which caught the sun. In an instant he was in the garden,
and in another he had forced a side gate leading by an alley to backyard
and kitchen door; but for many minutes he went no further than this
gate, behind which he cowered, prepared with excuses in case he had
already been observed.

It was in this interval that Stingaree recalled the season with a
thrill; for it was Christmas week, and without a doubt the house would
be empty till the New Year. Here was one port for the storm that must
follow his escape. And a very pleasant port he found it on entering,
after due precautionary delay.

Clearly the abode of young married people, the bungalow was fitted and
furnished with a taste which appealed almost painfully to Stingaree; the
drawing-room was draped in sheets, but the walls carried a few good
engravings, some of which he remembered with a stab. It was the
dressing-room, however, that he wanted, and the dressing-room made him
rub his hands. The dainty establishment had no more luxurious corner,
what with the fitted bath, circular shaving-glass, packed trouser-press,
a row of boots on trees, and a fine old wardrobe full of hanging coats.
Stingaree