from the left. He ran, smoothly and carefully, his ears taut to the rasping whistles, his eyes piercing the shadows ahead.
A milk-wagon rattled across his way as he came to a corner. He sprang toward it; the muzzle of his rifle touched the driver. The man drew in, and Collins leaped up by his side. They rattled noisily down the deserted streets wanly lit up by rare gas-lamps. The whistlings dwindled, ceased. Several times they passed policemen, frozen figures upon their beats. Collins’s rifle lay beneath the seat, but the muzzle of his revolver, all the time, was against the ribs of the driver, who handled the reins to Collins’s fierce whispers. They went a tortuous way through a district of fine residences where the close lights gleamed upon broad asphalt avenues; then the houses on both sides began to diminish in size and wealth. He left the wagon and went on at a walk.
The houses became smaller and humbler; he went by the shadowy walls of a gas tank, crossed a network of railway tracks, entered a
