Neither did it stop to pick up any one else for several blocks; there was a space before it unobstructed by traffic.  The motorman turned on more power and Mr. Heatherbloom listened gratefully to the humming wheels.  At the same time he looked back; at the corner where he had turned into Fourth avenue he fancied a number of people were gathering.  He could surmise the cause; the stockily-built man—­his pursuer—­was asking questions; he had learned what had become of the fugitive and was presumably looking around for a “taxi.”  In vain.  At least, Mr. Heatherbloom so concluded, because one did not appear in hot chase behind them.

The motorman still gave “rapid service”; the conductor looked at his watch, by which Mr. Heatherbloom imagined they had time to make up.  He hoped so, then resented a pause at a corner for an old lady.  How he wished she had not been afflicted with rheumatism, and could have got on without help!  But at length the light-weight conductor did manage to pull the heavy-weight passenger aboard.  Time lost, thirty seconds!  The motorman manipulated the lever more deliberately now and they gathered headway slowly.  Mr. Heatherbloom dared not remain longer where he was; as the car approached a corner near an elevated station, he got off.  He was obliged to walk now a short distance but he did so hastily.  Drawing near the iron steps, leading upward, he once more looked back; a “taxi” was whirling after him and he had no doubt as to its occupant.  The street-car could easily have been kept in sight and his leaving it been noted.

Mr. Heatherbloom now threw discretion to the winds; dashing toward the stairway he ran up.  Just as he reached the ticket window, the pursuing vehicle stopped below.  Some one sprang out, did not pause to pay the chauffeur, but calling out to him his name, started after Mr. Heatherbloom.  That gentleman had by this time boarded the train waiting above; he stood on the rear platform.  Any moment the pursuer would appear.  He did appear as the gates of the train were closed and the cars had started on their way.

Yet he did not give up for running alongside the last car he called out to the guard: 

“Fugitive from justice!  Criminal—­on this train!  Open the gate for me!”

An instant the guard hesitated; rules, however, were rules.

“Five hundred dollars if you let me on!” the voice panted.

The guard in his own mind decided he would let the other on—­too late; the last car dashed past the end of the platform.  A faint sigh of relief from Mr. Heatherbloom was drowned in the tumult of the wheels; then he endeavored to appear indifferent, apathetic.  It was not easy to do so; the secret-service agent had been heard by many others.