Dorothy's picture--her little girl's picture, the one she preferred to
all the others. She slipped it from its silver frame, and clasped it to
her breast. She could not bear to look upon the room as she left it. She
turned off the light, and crept away like a thief. She was trembling
now. The calmness that had been hers as she heard her death sentence,
was gone. Her overtaxed body and mind rebelled. It was with difficulty
that she made her way through the deserted rooms and stumbled to the
street and the waiting cab.

"Where to?" the chauffeur asked.

She gave the name of one of the large hotels. Yes, once in some such
caravanserai, she might elude all pursuit. In one door and out of
another--and who was to find her trace in the seething mass of the
city's life? The simple transaction of paying her fare, and entering the
hotel became strangely difficult. Words eluded her, she was conscious
that the chauffeur eyed her oddly as he handed her her bag.

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,