And George Collins must not be permitted to intercept it.
With the single resolve to frustrate Collins actuating his movements, Whitmore went to his apartment, slipped on his topcoat, and left the house.

He paused at the corner to consult his watch.

It was eleven o'clock.
He was sufficiently acquainted with the city to know that over on Seventh Avenue certain shops kept open until midnight.

He had passed them frequently after theater and observed the industrious proprietors and barkers noisily soliciting trade on the sidewalk.
Down Fifth Avenue Whitmore swung at a rapid pace, turning west at Forty-second Street.

Through the swirling crowds at Broadway he threaded his way, finally entering the gloomy thoroughfare that cuts a somber, murky streak through the illuminated area of Times Square.
Even Whitmore, engrossed as he was in his own affairs, could not help a feeling of depression as with a single step he emerged from the throbbing life and light of Broadway into the shabby darkness of Seventh Avenue.