cigars. At any rate, further dodging would be useless. He would
go directly to his destination. Old Gregor had sent him a duplicate
key to the apartment. He could hide there for a day or two; then
visit Rathbone's banker at his residence in the night to establish
his identity. Gregor could be trusted to carry the wallet and the
pouch to the bank. Once these were walled in steel half the battle
would be over. He would have nothing to guard thereafter but his
life. He laughed brokenly. Nothing but the clothes he stood in.
He never could claim the belongings he had been forced to leave in
that hotel back yonder. But there was loyal old Gregor. Somebody
would be honestly glad to see him. The poor old chap! Astonishing,
but of late he was always thinking in English.

He hailed the first free taxicab he saw, climbed in, and was driven
downtown. He looked back constantly. Was he followed? There was
no way of telling. The street was alive with vehicles tearing
north and south, with frequent stoppage for the passage of those
racing east and west. The destination of Hawksley's cab was an
old-fashioned apartment house in Eightieth Street.

Gregor would have a meal ready; and it struck Hawksley forcibly
that he was hungry, that he had not touched food since the night
before. Gregor, valeting in a hotel, pressing coats and trousers
and sewing on buttons! Groggy old world, wasn't it? Gregor,
pressing the trousers of the hoi polloi! Gregor, who could have
sent New York mad with that old Stradivarius of his! But Gregor
was wise. Safety for him lay in obscurity; and what was more
obscure than a hotel valet?

He did not seek the elevator but mounted the first flight of stairs.