A band of half a dozen men was
struggling and pushing away from Montgomery Street into the darker end
of the alley. They were nearly under the window.
"Give it to him," said a voice.
In an instant there came a scream, so freighted with agony that it
burst the bonds of gripping fingers and smothering palms that tried to
close it in, and rose for the fraction of a second on the foul air of
the alley. Then a light showed and a tall, broad-shouldered figure
leaped back.
"These aren't the papers," it hissed. "Curse on you, you've got the
wrong man!"
There was a moment's confusion, and the light flashed on the man who
had spoken and was gone. But that flash had shown me the face of a man
I could never forget--a man whose destiny was bound up for a brief
period with mine, and whose wicked plans have proved the master
influence of my life. It was a strong, cruel, wolfish face--the face of
a man near sixty, with a fierce yellow-gray mustache and imperial--a
face broad at the temples and tapering down into a firm, unyielding
jaw, and marked then with all the lines of rage, hatred, and chagrin at
the failure of his plans.
It took not a second for me to see and hear and know all this, for the
vision came and was gone in the dropping of an eyelid. And then there
echoed through the alley loud cries of "Police! Murder! Help!" I was
conscious that there was a man running through the hall and down the
rickety stairs, making the building ring to the same cries.
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