When the pack began to sift and sweep her into strange directions she felt that Tesla was still laughing, though she could no longer hear him. The street became shapeless. Something had ended. A bell clanged away. People were again walking. They had dull faces and were quiet. She caught a glimpse of the step on which Tesla had stood behind a mist and cried, "Comrades!" She remembered often having stood on the step herself in coming to the office of _The Cry_. This made her sicken. It was her wrists that had been twisted, her uncovered face that had been struck by fists. The emotion left her as a hand tugged eagerly at her arm. It pulled her up on the crowded curbing. "Good God, Rachel, what are you doing here?" She looked up and saw Hazlitt in uniform. He kept pulling her. Why should Hazlitt be pulling her out of a crowd in 10th Street? She tried to jerk away. She must run from Hazlitt before he began talking. He would make her scream. Turning to him with a quiet in her voice she said carefully: "Please let me go. You hurt my arm." But his hand remained. His eyes, shining and indignant, prodded at her.... The street was quiet. Nothing had happened. Unconscious buildings, unconscious traffic, faces wrapped in solitudes--these were in the streets again. She turned and looked with amazement at her companion. People do not fall out of the sky and seize you by the arm. There was something stark about Hazlitt pulling her out of the street mob and holding her arm. He was an amputation. You pulled yourself out of a filth of faces and sprawled suddenly into a quiet, cheerful street holding an arm in your hand, as if it had come loose from the pack. It seemed part of some arrangement--Tesla, the pack, Hazlitt's arm. Her amazement died. Hazlitt was saying: "I knew you'd be in that mob. I thought when I saw them haul that dirty beggar out ..." He halted, pained by a memory. Rachel nodded. The curious sense of having been Tesla came again to her. He had laughed in a way that reminded her of herself. She would laugh like that if they struck at her face. Her eyes turned frightenedly toward Hazlitt. What was he going to do? Arrest her? He was in uniform. But why should he arrest her? His eyes had the fixed light of somebody performing a duty. He was arresting her, and Erik would come home and not find her. Her lithe body became possessed of an astounding strength. With a vicious grimace she tore herself from his grip and confronted him, her eyes on fire. "Please, Rachel. Come with me till I can talk. You must ..." A white-faced Hazlitt, with suffering eyes. Then he was not arresting her. The street bobbed along indifferently. "I'm going away in an hour. You'll maybe never see me again. But I can't go away till I've talked to you. Please."