They were led by a barber, who shaved black faces next door. He was a mulatto with a flat nose, which made his appearance grotesque. With a roar like that of a mad guerilla, he ran in hot pursuit. Away they went, all of them now, including Wyeth. The barber led the others by far, and in his hand, open for action, was a razor. It seemed quite large to Wyeth as it glistened in the sunlight, for the day had cleared. Perhaps he was seeing double, but he followed while the "victim"--which we shall call the other--preceded the other only slightly. The barber was breaking wind now, but gaining nevertheless. As Wyeth followed in that dark pursuit, a picture of the possible consequences rose before him. This Negro, scion of two races, embittered by an instance in our history that will never die, was wild. Blood, blue blood, it was he thirsted. All the hatred of a thousand or more years was now privileged, by the unwritten law, to give vent. This other has attempted crime--the robbery of the people's where-with-all. To kill him now was to get revenge, revenge upon those who have long since died--and go scott free! Perhaps the other appreciated this point of view. He rushed pellmell, wildly through the street he came into, and turned at the end up another that led, whither, he did not take time to think or to consider. It seemed impossible for the man to escape dire consequences, as Sidney Wyeth saw him now. He wished he could save him, but he did not know how. Only a few steps ahead, the culprit led the other. It was only a question of minutes--a minute. And then--horrors! Up this new street, which happened to be Herald, they went, and closer and closer the Negro came to the victim. He was breaking wind fearfully. A block had been covered, when, ahead to the left stood a laundry with doors wide open. Then, suddenly, when abreast of it, the victim plunged into it, but so did the barber. Others followed, and workers fell back amazed. To the rear the chase led, and then, lo! A brick wall faced the victim, with a closed door only. This door could not be opened in time! That appeared to settle it! The poor creature, frightened out of his wits, fell to the floor, and then rose to one knee, with hands stretched Heavenward. At last the end had come. The Negro now, the picture of which our pen cannot describe, stood over him with razor upraised, and eyes dancing with murder like huge coals of fire. "Don't cut me with that razor, Mister," the victim whimpered. He pushed the other back until he was against the door. For the first time in his life, Sidney Wyeth was to see a man killed. One moment he looked. The sunlight played through a transom window, falling strangely upon the blade of that poised razor. He closed his eyes to shut out the fearful sight. The next moment, he opened them as he heard a noise--a momentous instant. It was the opening of the door, against which the victim had been pushed.