At the precinct station the squat man gave a name and an address to the bored sergeant at the desk, passed out a cigar, lit one himself, expressed some innocuous opinions upon one or two topics of the day, and walked leisurely out of the precinct.

He wanted to laugh.

These pigheads had never thought to question his presence in the backyard of the house in Seventy-ninth Street.

It was the way he had carried himself.
Those years in New York, prior to the war, had not been wasted.

The brass-buttoned fools! Serenely unconscious that he was at liberty by explicit orders, because the Department of Justice did not care to trap a werewolf before ascertaining where the pack was and what the kill, he proceeded leisurely to the corner, turned, and broke into a run, which carried him to a drug store in Eightieth Street.