echoed through the alley loud cries of "Police! Murder! Help!" I was
conscious that there was a man running through the hall and down the
rickety stairs, making the building ring to the same cries. My own
feelings were those of overmastering fear for my friend. He had gone on
his mysterious, dangerous errand, and I felt that it was he who had
been dragged into the alley, and stabbed, perhaps to death. Yet it
seemed I could make no effort, nor rouse myself from the stupor of
terror into which I was thrown by the scene I had witnessed.

It was thus with a feeling of surprise that I found myself in the
street, and came to know that the cries for help had come from me, and
that I was the man who had run through the hall and down the stairs
shouting for the police.

Singularly enough there was no crowd to be seen, and no excitement
anywhere. Some one was playing a wheezy melodeon in the saloon, and men
were singing a drunken song. The alley was dark, and I could see no one
in its depths. The house through which I had flown shouting was now
silent, and if any one on the street had heard me he had hurried on and
closed his ears, lest evil befall him. Fortunately the policeman on the
beat was at hand, and I hailed him excitedly.

"Only rolling a drunk," he said lightly, as I told of what I had seen.

"No, it's worse than that," I insisted. "There was murder done, and I'm
afraid it's my friend."

He listened more attentively as I told him how Henry had left the house
just before the cry for help had risen.