ing sometimes,
sometimes walking straight ahead; always, away behind me, lost in the
crowd, was my pursuer. It could no longer be doubted. He was really
following me, though he did it so adroitly, with such consummate
cunning, that I should never have seen him, never have suspected him,
but for that fortunate intuition at the start.

A hundred plans flashed through my brain. I had this advantage: he
could not know that I suspected him. If I could only overmaster him in
cunning, wrest his secret from him--and then, as I remembered the
strong face, the piercing eyes, the perfect self-control, I realized
how little possible it was that I could accomplish this. He was my
superior in diplomacy and deceit; he would not pause, now, at any
means to assure the success of his plot.

Yes, I could doubt no longer that there was a plot, whose depths I
had not before even suspected; and I drew back from the thought with a
little shiver. What was the plot? What intricate, dreadful crime was
this which he was planning? The murder of the father, then, had been
only the first step. The abduction of Frances Holladay was the second.
What would the third be? How could we prevent his taking it? Suppose
we should be unsuccessful? And, candidly, what chance of success could
we have, fighting in the dark against this accomplished scoundrel? He
had the threads all in his fingers, he controlled the situation; we
were struggling blindly, snarled in a net of mystery from which there
seemed no escaping. My imagination clothed him with superhuman
attributes. For a moment a wild desire possessed me to turn upon him,
to confront him, to accuse him, to confound him with the very
certainty of my knowledge, to surprise his secret, to trample him
down!

But the frenzy passed. No, he must not discover that I suspected him;
I must not yield up that advantage. I might yet surprise him, mislead
him, set a trap for him, get him to say more than he wished to say.
That battle of wits would come later on--this very night, perhaps--but
for the moment, I could do nothing better than carry out my first
plan. Yet, he must not suspect the direction of my search--I must
throw him off the track. Why, this was, for all the world, just like
the penny-dreadfuls of my boyhood--and I smiled at the thought that I
had become an actor in a drama fitted for a red-and-yellow cover!

My plan was soon made. I crossed Broadway and turned into Cortlandt,
sauntering along it until