y were outside in the yard, or
whatever frightful weapon they used could work through a closed door.
He tried to move, first one way, then the other. His feet remained
frozen.

Then steps sounded in the hallway, and he waited no longer. His legs
came to sudden life, hurling him over the carcass of the cat and
outside. He went charging through the refuse, and then leaped and
clawed his way over the fence. The alley was deserted, and he shot
down it, to swing right, and into another alley.

It wasn't until his muscles began to fail that he could control
himself enough to stop and stumble into a darkened spot among the
garbage cans, spent and gasping for breath.

* * * * *

There was no sign of anyone following. Hawkes had no idea of how they
could trace him--but he was beginning to suspect that nothing was
impossible, judging by the results of their weapons. For the moment,
though, he seemed to have shaken off pursuit. And the physical fatigue
had apparently eased some of his terror.

What had shocked him into losing seven months out of his memory, and
still could drive him into absolute terror at the first sign of them?

He couldn't go back to the room, and his own apartment was out of the
question. The rain had stopped, mercifully, but he couldn't walk the
streets indefinitely, dirty and bedraggled as he was. He tried to
think of something to do, but all of his schemes took money which he
no longer had.

Finally, he arose wearily. Maybe the apartment for which he had the
rent receipt was watched--but he'd have to chance it. There was no
place else.

He'd been accidentally heading toward it, and he continued now,
sticking to the alleys until he reached West End Avenue. He tried to
hurry, but the best his tired muscles could do was a slow shuffle.

Light was beginning to show faintly in the sky, but it was still too
early for more than a few cars and a chance pedestrian. At this hour,
the avenue was used by only a few cruising cabs, heading toward better
sections. He shuffled along, trying to look like a man on his way home
after too much night out. The cat blood on his clothes bothered him,
until he tried weaving a little as he walked, imitating the drunks he
had seen often enough.

He passed an all night diner, and fished for his pennies. But there
were several men inside. He went on, past Fifty-ninth Street, heading
for the apartment, which should be near Sixty-seventh.

He