his way past its shambling hovels and warehouses.
Now and then he would pause, following with his eyes
the curve of the great steel highway, carried on the
stone shoulders of successive arches, the sweep of its
lines marked by a procession of lights, its outstretched,
interlocked palms gripped close. The memory of certain
streets in London came to him--those near its
own great bridges, especially the city dump at Black-
friars and the begrimed buildings hugging the stone
knees of London Bridge, choking up the snakelike
alleys and byways leading to the Embankment.

Crossing under the Elevated, he continued along the
side of the giant piers and wheeled into a dirt-choked,
ill-smelling street, its distant outlet a blaze of electric
lights. It was now the dead hour of the twenty-four--
the hour before the despatch of the millions of journals,
damp from the presses. He was the only human being
in sight.

Suddenly, when within a hundred feet of the end of
the street, a figure detached itself from a deserted
doorway. Felix caught his stick from under his armpit
as the man held out a hand.

"Say, I want you to give me the price of a meal."

Felix tightened his hold on the stick. The words
had conveyed a threat.