“Don’t be afraid I’ll worry the kid!”

The stale odour of cigarette smoke with which the dim corridor was charged intoxicated, threatened to overpower him.  It seemed to be the reek of evil itself.  A closing door had a sinister meaning.  He hurried; obscurity reigned below, the light in the lower hall being out; fumbled for the door-knob, and once in the street took a deep breath and mopped his brow; but he had not proceeded half a block before he hesitated, retraced his steps, reentered the vestibule, and stooped to peer at the cards under the speaking tubes.  Cheaply printed in large script, was the name of the tenant of the second floor rear,—­Miss Kate Marcy. . . .

In crossing Tower Street he was frightened by the sharp clanging of a great electric car that roared past him, aflame with light.  His brain had seemingly ceased to work, and he stumbled at the curb, for he was very tired.  The events of the day no longer differentiated themselves in his mind but lay, a composite weight, upon his heart.  At length he reached the silent parish house, climbed the stairs and searched in his pocket for the key of his rooms.  The lock yielded, but while feeling for the switch he tripped and almost fell over an obstruction on the floor.

The flooding light revealed his travelling-bags, as he had piled them, packed and ready to go to the station.