"He'll come straight to me-straight to me!"

The hour was not late, but the blizzard had driven the crowds from
the streets. Eighth avenue sidewalks were deserted except for the
people who were obliged to brave the storm. As Droom hurried south
to his lodgings he became possessed of a racking belief that someone
was following close upon his heels--someone who was rushing up to
deal him a murderous blow in the back. The old man actually broke
into a frantic run in covering the last half block.

It was not until he was in his rooms, with the door bolted that
he could rid himself of the dread. The fire had gone out and the
light was low. His teeth chattered and his hand shook as he raised
the wick in the lamp. The palsy of inexplicable fear was upon him.
Kneeling before the stove he began to rebuild the fire. His back
was toward the door and he turned an anxious face in that direction
from time to time. Footsteps on the stairway sent a new chill through
his gaunt frame. They passed on up the next flight, but he waited
breathlessly until he heard the door of the apartment above slam
noisily.

For half an hour he sat huddled in front of the stove without
removing his hat and ulster.

"Curse the luck," he was saying over and over again to himself,
sometimes aloud. "Why should he have a pardon? What are the laws
for? Curse that meddling old fool Clegg! They'll set him free, and
he'll hunt me out, I know he will. He won't forgive me for that
day's work. He may be free now-it may have been he who followed me.
But no! That's a silly thing to think. It takes weeks and months