Having convinced himself of this, Frederic wheeled and swung off up the street once more, walking rapidly, as one who is pursued. Turning, he waved his hand at the man in the window. He received no response. Farther off, he looked back once more. The Hindu still was there. Long after he was out of sight of the house he cast frequent glances over his shoulder, as if still expecting to see the lighted window and its occupant. Blocks away, in his hurried, aimless flight, he slackened his pace and began to wonder whither he was going. He had no objective point in mind. He was drifting. His footsteps lagged and he looked about him for marks of locality. Union Square lay behind him, and beyond, across Eighteenth Street, was the Third Avenue Elevated. He had not meant to come in this direction. It was not his mind alone that wandered. As he made his way back to Broadway, somewhat hazily bent on following that thoroughfare up to the district where the night glittered and the stars were shamed, he began turning over in his mind a queer notion that had just suggested itself to him, filtering through the maze of uncertainty in which he had been floundering. It occurred to him that he had been mawkishly sentimental in respect to his father. He was seriously impressed by the feelings that had mastered him, but he found himself ridiculing the idea that his father stood in peril of any description. And suddenly, out of no particular trend of thought, groped the sly, persistent suspicion that he had not been altogether responsible for the sensations of an hour ago. Some outside influence had moulded his emotions, some cunning brain had been doing his thinking for him! Then came the sharp recollection of that motionless, commanding figure in the lighted window, and his own puzzling behaviour on the side-walk outside. He recalled his impression that someone has called out to him just before he turned to look up at the window. It was all quite preposterous, he kept on saying over and over again to himself, and yet he could not shake off the uncanny feeling. Like a shot there flashed into his brain the startling question: was Ranjab the solution? Was it Ranjab's mind and not his own that had moved him to such tender resolves? Could such a condition be possible? Was there such a thing as mind control? He laughed aloud, and was startled by the sound of his own voice. The idea was preposterous! Such a thing could not have been possible. They were his own thoughts, his own emotions, coming from his own brain, his own heart. An hour later Frederic approached the box-office of the theatre mentioned by Yvonne over the telephone that morning. The play was half over and the house was sold out. He bought a ticket of admission, however, and lined up with others who were content to stand at the back to witness the play.