troubled eyes and close-shut lips to the likenesses of the murderer
Hade.

They reached Torresdale in half an hour, and the stranger, alighting
quickly, struck off at a rapid pace down the country road leading to
the station.

Gallegher gave him a hundred yards' start, and then followed slowly
after. The road ran between fields and past a few frame-houses set far
from the road in kitchen gardens.

Once or twice the man looked back over his shoulder, but he saw only a
dreary length of road with a small boy splashing through the slush in
the midst of it and stopping every now and again to throw snowballs at
belated sparrows.

After a ten minutes' walk the stranger turned into a side road which
led to only one place, the Eagle Inn, an old roadside hostelry known
now as the headquarters for pothunters from the Philadelphia game
market and the battle-ground of many a cock-fight.

Gallegher knew the place well. He and his young companions had often
stopped there when out chestnutting on holidays in the autumn.

The son of the man who kept it had often accompanied them on their
excursions, and though the boys of the city streets considered him a
dumb lout, they respected him somewhat owing to his inside knowledge
of dog and cock-fights.

The stranger entered the inn at a side door, and Gallegher, reaching