kommt der Kerl nun endlich...!_” He pointed, my heart leapt into my mouth; nothing could induce me to arrest him, it seemed, and my relief on seeing it was a stranger was always genuine--at the moment. One night--or early morning, rather--the doctor, who had been silent for a long time, turned to me with a grey, exhausted face. The morphine was beginning to fail him, and he must inject another dose. This happened several times.... Behind a curtain, or in a place aside where we were not even alone, he opened his clothes, found a clear space of skin, and applied the needle, while I rubbed the spot with my finger for about a minute to prevent a blister forming. No one, except perhaps a very drunken man or woman occasionally, paid the smallest attention to the operation; to them it was evidently a familiar and commonplace occurrence.... “You must not stay up any longer,” he would say another time, after a sudden examination of my face. “You look dreadful. Come, we will go home.” I was only too glad to be marched off. We paced the icy streets arm in arm, numerous people still about on various errands, tramcars and elevated trains still roaring, saloons and joints blazing with light, wide open till dawn, while the old man, rejuvenated and stimulated by the drug, discoursed eloquently the whole way, I dragging by his side, silent, depressed, weary with pains that seemed more poignant then than hunger or mere physical fatigue. The next night it would be the same, and the one after that, and the next one after that too--the search continued. It wore me down. I saw the eyeglass staring furtively at me from behind every corner, even in the day-time. His footstep sounded behind me often. At night I locked my door, for fear he might steal back into the room.... Once or twice I reported to headquarters that I was on the trail, but the detective had lost interest in the case; a conviction was doubtful, anyhow; he was not “going to sit around catching flies”; only the fact that I was a reporter on the _Sun_ made him pause. “Telephone when you get him,” he said, “and I’ll come up and do the rest.” Much fresh information about Boyde had also come my way; he had even stolen the vases from a Church communion table--though he denied this in his confession later--and pawned them. In every direction, and this he did not deny, he had borrowed money in my name, giving me the worst possible character while doing so. Probably indeed, I never lived down _all_ he said about me.... It was a bitter, and apparently, an endless search. From the West Side joints, we visited the East Side haunts of vice and dissipation. I now knew Boyde too well to think he would “fly high”; his tastes were of the lowest. The ache it all gave me I can never describe....