An accommodation train eventually deposited him in Poughkeepsie,
where he purchased a cap and a sturdy walking stick. The stubble
on his chin and cheeks began to irritate him intensely, but he could
not rid himself of the idea that a barber's chair would be inviting
danger. He was now tolerably certain that from one end of the
continent to the other his presence was known. His life and his
property, they would be after both. Even now there might be men in
this strange town seeking him. The closer he got to New York, the
more active and wide-awake they would become.

He walked the streets, his glance constantly roving. But apparently
no one paid the least attention to him. Finally he returned to the
railway station; and at six o'clock that evening he left the platform
of the 125th Street Station, and appraised covertly the men who
accompanied him to the street. He felt assured that they were all
Americans. Probably they were; but there are still some stray fools
of American birth who cannot accept the great American doctrine as
the only Ararat visible in this present flood. Perhaps one of these
accompanied Hawksley to the street. Whatever he was, one had upon
order met every south-going train since seven o'clock that morning,
when Quasimodo, paying from the gold hidden in his belt, had sent
forth the telegraphic alarm. The man hurried across the street and
followed Hawksley by matching his steps. His business was merely to
learn the other's destination and then to report.

Across the earth a tempest had been loosed; but Ariel did not ride
it, Caliban did. The scythe of terror was harvesting a type; and
the innocent were bending with the guilty.

Suddenly Hawksley felt young, revivified, free. He had arrived.