and distorted his mental vision. These periods alternated with
some regularity, as if the wine-fumes rose in waves; but he
centered his attention upon the task ahead of him and hastened his
sluggish limbs.

One word--"murder"--stuck in his memory; it kept repeating itself.
He remembered Jimmy Knight's sentence directed at Lorelei. "D'you
want to go to court?"

Lorelei was his wife, Bob reflected, dizzily--quite clearly he
remembered marrying her. It was plainly as necessary, therefore,
to shield her as to remove Jarvis Hammon and smother this
accident. Or was it an accident, after all? Perhaps Lilas had shot
the fellow. If that were true, then she ought to be arrested--
certainly. But somebody had said, "She'll saddle it onto Lorelei
to save herself." After all, it couldn't be murder, for hadn't
Hammon said that he shot himself? Bob decided there could be no
such need for haste, now that the truth was known, so he slackened
his zigzag progress. If nobody had been murdered, why hire a cab
at all? Then he began to run again, remembering that Hammon needed
a doctor. This was a fine wedding night, indeed. For once in his
life he wished himself sober.

Broadway, that pulsating artery of New York life, was still
flowing a thin stream of traffic despite the lateness of the hour,
and Bob's mind had become clearer by the time he reached it.

He signaled to the first horse-drawn vehicle that passed, but it
was occupied, and the driver paid no heed to his call. Several
taxi-cabs whirled past, both north and south bound, but he knew