Only the intermittent glow of his pipe coal could be seen. Near
the journey's end; and no more tight-rope walking, with death at
both ends, and death staring up from below. Queer how the human
being clung to life. What had he to live for? Nothing. So far as
he was concerned, the world had come to an end. Sporting instinct;
probably that was it; couldn't make up his mind to shuffle off this
mortal coil until he had beaten his enemies. English university
education had dulled the bite of his natural fatalism. To carry on
for the sport of it; not to accept fate but to fight it.

By chance his hand touched his spiky chin. Nevertheless, he would
have to enter New York just as he was. He had left his razor in a
Pullman washroom hurriedly one morning. He dared not risk a barber's
chair, especially these American chairs, that stretched one out in
a most helpless manner.

Slowly his pipe sank toward his breast. The weary body was
overcoming the will. A sound broke the pleasant spell. He sat up,
tense. Someone had entered through the window and stumbled over the
chair! Hawksley threw on the light.



CHAPTER II


When the day clerk arrived the night clerk sleepily informed him
that the guest in Room 214 was without baggage and had not paid in
advance.