Directly as he could calculate and at his top speed, he set out for the Arsenal gate; there took a stand on about the spot from which he had intercepted Jasper at the somewhat less exciting start of this same chase several evenings ago. Surely she now would make straight for home, whatever may have been her reason for visiting the butte! His eyes, searching for a poke-bonneted figure in black, soon were rewarded. Through the pedestrian gate near which he stood in deep shadow she came. Watching her chance with the traffic, she darted across the greased trail of the avenue and, once on the opposite sidewalk, turned south. Pape continued to pursue along his side of the street, determined to finish his task of safeguarding her until the front door of her aunt’s house should shut her—only briefly, he hoped—from his sight. But what spirit of perversity was ruling her? Toward the steps of the Sturgis brownstone she did not turn; did not give them so much as a glance. Briskly as before she continued down the avenue until at the Sixty-third Street corner she again turned east. Was the house to be gained by some rear entrance from the lower street—one made advisable by the disguise she wore? From its mid-block position, this supposition did not seem tenable. Pape decided to take no chances, except with the traffic. Crossing the street with a rush, he gained a point a hundred or so feet behind her, then timed his steps with hers. Due east they walked, at a good pace, but without undue hurry. She seemed fully reassured. Although she inclined her young face and bent her young back to the old part, she did not glance back as though nervous over possible pursuit. The block was lined mostly with homes—of the near-rich, he judged from the look of them. Of the few people who passed none gave more than a casual glance at the actively shuffling “old lady.” They crossed what the street sign told Pape was Madison Avenue; passed several apartment houses and more residences. Across Park and Lexington, still due east, the tone of the section fell off. From Third Avenue onward it went continually “down.” Pape kept one eye on the figure he was following and the other on his surroundings, figuratively speaking. Both were interesting. This was his first excursion into the far East Side and he was surprised by the mid-width of Manhattan Isle. They came to a block lofted with tenements on one side and shadowed by huge, cylindric gas tanks on the other. Children swarmed the sidewalk thick as ants over a home-hillock and screamed like Indians on rampage. Washings left out for overnight drying were strung from one fire-escape to another of the scaly brick fronts. As though laving the cross-street’s dirty feet, the East River shimmered dimly in the lights from shore and from passing steam craft. Beyond loomed that isle of punishment dreams come true—the Blackwell’s which politicians would rename “Welfare.”