When he called thus it was not an act of will at all--will had turned him away from the moving figure in the street; it was almost instinct that called, just the pile on pile of inherent tradition or some wild prayer from way over the night.

Then something clanged like a low gong struck at a distance, and before his eyes a face flashed over the two feet, a face pale and distorted with a sort of infinite evil that twisted it like flame in the wind; _but he knew, for the half instant that the gong tanged and hummed, that it was the face of Dick Humbird._ Minutes later he sprang to his feet, realizing dimly that there was no more sound, and that he was alone in the graying alley.

It was cold, and he started on a steady run for the light that showed the street at the other end.
***** AT THE WINDOW It was late morning when he woke and found the telephone beside his bed in the hotel tolling frantically, and remembered that he had left word to be called at eleven.

Sloane was snoring heavily, his clothes in a pile by his bed.

They dressed and ate breakfast in silence, and then sauntered out to get some air.