_Retribution and punishment, because the tiger had killed human beings? No, no and never no, for these are worthless without understanding by the person upon whom they are visited. A baby understands not the reason why, but only the whack across its buttocks when its fingers or its life are in danger, and that action is thence forward "reject"; but Clarens is not a baby and a baby is not a tiger, with all three having only this in common, that 'don't do this' is a mystery...._ Bennington seated himself beside Thornberry in the rear of Scott's sedan, more aware of his thoughts than his movements. For a moment the whine of the turbine was high, the gleam of the headlights low, then they were on their way. * * * * * Hickory Street was a fast three-minute run from the police station. "Nothing but warehouses," Scott said. "We're a big trans-shipment center." The narrow, one-way streets and the broad-shouldered bulk of the big buildings emphasized what the chief had said. The railroads and the rivers were still the most economical way to ship the space-taking stuff, coal, steel, grain. Harrisburg was a crossroads where the east-west and north-south main lines met, with a natural growth of the long warehouses at the intersection. Scott spun the driver's wheel to the left and cut the car lights. "Hickory Street." It is a lonely place at night, Bennington decided. Thornberry leaned forward from the back seat of the car, leaned forward so far between Scott and Mosby that his thin nose almost touched the front window. "Ideal, ideal, just the way Clarens would be thinking." "Thank God we found Judkins," Mosby said, "but say, that reminds me. Why didn't he take the first plane or train out of town? He had plenty of time before we knew we wanted him." Thornberry pulled himself back, re-condensed his lean frame in the left corner of the back seat. "He was waiting for Senator Giles to pay him off and tell him where to hide out." Chief Scott idled his car to a halt beside another dark-blue sedan almost invisible in the shadowed street. A figure loomed large in the shadows, came forward and identified itself. "Patrolman Whelton, sir, and Sergeant Kerr is in the back." Somehow Scott managed to return the salute while at the same time disentangling himself from his seat-belt and from behind the driver's wheel. "What did you spot?" "According to orders, we were riding the alleys and we saw that the window had been broken since our last inspection." They were in a tight group around the young patrolman because Whelton had spoken in a soft, church-going whisper. Now Mosby walked away from the group, thoughtfully fingering the ivory-handled butts of his revolvers, but returning to the group when Scott began speaking. "Thanks, General Mosby. They couldn't have checked the alleys as often as they did without your men helping out on the streets. This way, we caught it fast." [Illustration]