His heart gave a sudden leap.  He hurried forward.  A street car was rounding the terminal loop on its return to town.  He clattered aboard.  He felt suddenly free and light hearted, almost gay.  What would he do now?  Look up Helen at Hilmer’s and persuade her to dine with him somewhere downtown?...  He remembered that he had not even telephoned her for two days.  The conviction that had settled upon him during his walk through the Park woods descended again.  Helen seemed impersonal and unapproachable...  He felt a desire for noise and conviviality and laughter.  He decided to look in at the St. Francis bar and see if he could chance upon a hilarious friend or two.

Starratt had overlooked the fact of war-time prohibition when he picked the St. Francis bar as a place of genial fellowship.  The memory of its old-time six-o’clock gayety was still fresh enough to trick him.  He swung into its screened entrance to find it practically deserted.  The old bustle and hoarse conversation and hearty laughter were replaced by dreary silence.  The provocative rattle of ice in the highball glass, the appetizing smell of baked ham from the free-lunch counter, the thick, pungent clouds of tobacco smoke—­all had been routed by chill, hypocritical virtue.  One or two of the tables were surrounded by solemn circles of males getting speedily drunk in an effort to finish up the melancholy remains filched from some private stock, but their attempts at light-heartedness were very sad and maudlin.  Fred was moving away when he heard his name called.  He turned to find a group of business associates from California Street sitting before two bottles of Scotch, which were ministering to their rather dour conviviality.  Starratt started to wave a mingled greeting and farewell when his raised hand fell heavily against his side—­in the polished depths of the bar’s flawless mirror loomed the unwelcome figure that had pursued him all day!...  He went over and joined his friends.

He had one drink ... two ... another.  Then he lost count ... but the supply seemed inexhaustible.  A sudden rush of high spirits keyed him tensely.  He talked and laughed and waved his arms about, calling upon everybody to witness his light-heartedness.  Through the confused blur of faces surrounding him he caught an occasional glimpse of the thin, cruel lips and the shifting, beady eyes of his pursuer sitting over a flat drink which he left untouched.

Presently somebody in the party suggested a round of the bohemian joints.  The motion was noisily seconded...  Fred staggered to his feet.  They began with the uptown tenderloin, drifting in due time through the Greek cafes on Third Street.  Finally they crossed Market Street and began to chatter into the tawdry dance halls of upper Kearny.  Everywhere the drinks flowed in covert streams, growing viler and more nauseous as the pilgrimage advanced.  Near Jackson Street they came upon a bedraggled pavilion of dubious gayety which lured them downstairs with