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