He saw a street-car rattle past, bound on the final run of the night for
the car-sheds at East End. Then he was alone again--alone and frightened.

He felt the necessity for action. He must do something--something, but
what? What was there to do?

A great fear gripped him. He was with the body. The body was in his cab.
He would be arrested for the murder of the man!

Of course he knew he didn't do it. The woman had committed the murder.

Spike swore. He had almost forgotten the woman. Where was she? How had
she managed to leave the taxicab? When had the man, who now lay sprawled
in the cab, entered it?

He had driven straight from the Union Station to the address given by
the woman--straight down East End Avenue, turning neither to right nor
left. The utter impossibilty of the situation robbed it of some of its
stark horror. And yet--

Spike knew that he must do something. He tried to think connectedly, and
found it a difficult task. Near him loomed the shadow which was No. 981
East End Avenue--the address given by the woman when she entered the cab.
He might go in there and report the circumstances. Some one there would
know who she was, and--but he hesitated.

Perhaps this thing had been prearranged. Perhaps they would get him--for
what he didn't know. When a man--a young man--comes face to face with
murder for the first time, making its acquaintance on a freezing December