could tell you clearly. What is in your own mind? There IS a line.

At half after seven I left the club, and exactly a quarter of an
hour later I stood opposite the doorway of No. 4020 Madison Avenue.
A tall man was descending the steps; I recognized Bingham, a member
of my club, and recalled the torn-up visiting-card that I had found
in the library. So Bingham was one of us.

Now I don't know Bingham, except by sight, and I shouldn't have
cared to stop and question him, anyway. But I caught one glimpse of
his face as he hurried away, and it looked gray under the
electrics. Call it the effect of the arc light, if you like; he was
hurrying, certainly, and it struck me that it was because he was
anxious to get away.

Many are the motives that send men into adventurous situations, but
there is at least one among them that is compelling--hunger. I have
said that I had gone to the club for dinner; I did not say that I
got it. To be honest, I had hoped for an invitation--charity, if
you insist upon it. But I had been unfortunate. None of my
particular friends had chanced to be around, and Jeckley's cocktail
had been the only hospitality proffered me. You remember that my
pocket had been picked yesterday morning, and since then--well, I
had eaten nothing. I might have signed the dinner check, you say.
Quite true, but I shall probably be as penniless on the first of
the month as I am to-day, and then what? Too much like helping
one's self from a friend's pocket.

So it was just a blind, primeval impulse that urged me on. This Mr.
Indiman had chosen to fish in muddy waters, and his rashness but