Then came a blank.  She found herself once more out-of-doors, in an unfamiliar cross street.  She saw a number on a lamppost, and realized that she had walked many blocks.  She imagined that she was pursued—­someone was lurking behind her in the shadow of an area—­someone had peeped at her from behind drawn blinds.  She started to run, but her bursting heart restrained her.  She tried to still its beating; it seemed loud, clamorous as a drum; everyone must hear it and wonder what consciousness of guilt could make a heart beat so loudly in one’s breast.  She began walking again as rapidly as she dared.  She must not attract attention.  She must not let the shadows that followed her know that she feared them.  If they guessed her panic they would lurk no longer; they would crowd close, rush upon her in vaporous throngs, stifling her like hot smoke.

She paused for breath in her painful flight.  The glare from the entrance of a moving picture show fell upon her.  Somehow, in that light she felt safe.  The shadows could not cross its yellow glare.  She breathed more easily for a moment, then became tense.  A man was coming out of the white and gold ginger-bread entrance, like a maggot from some huge cake.  The man was small, middle-aged, dark, with unwieldy movements and evil, predatory eyes—­“Like Victor Mahr!” she said aloud; “like Victor Mahr!” The man passed before her and was gone from the circle of light into the darkness of the outer street.  She gave a gasp, and her mad eyes dilated.  The suggestion had gripped her.  Sudden furious hate entered her soul.  Victor Mahr—­her enemy!  The cause of all her heart break.  She had forgotten how or why this was the case; but she knew herself the victim—­he, the torturer.  She wanted vengeance, she wanted relief from her own torment.  It was he who held the key to the whole trouble.  She must find him out.  She must tear it from him.  She strove to think clearly, to remember where she might find him.  She started walking again; standing still would not find him, that was certain.  Unconsciously she followed the directions her subconscious mind offered.  As she walked, there came a sense of approval.  She was on the right track now.  Her footfalls became less dragging and aimless.  She was going somewhere—­to a definite place, where she would find something vastly necessary, imperative to her very life.

She neared a church; passed it.  Yes, that was right.  It was a landmark on her road.  A white archway loomed before her in the gloom.  Her journey’s end—­her journey’s end!  With that realization fatigue mastered her.  She must rest before making any further effort, or she could not accomplish anything.  Her limbs refused to do her bidding.  The weight of her traveling case had become a crushing burden.  But before she rested she must find something important that she had come so far to see—­a house, a large house—­what house?

She looked about her at the stately mansions fronting the square.  Then recognition leaped into her eyes, and she sank upon a bench facing the familiar entrance.  Now she could afford to wait.  Her enemy could not escape while she sat watching.  He—­could—­not—­escape—­