Evan borrowed a newspaper at the bank and cut from it five pieces of the size and shape of bills. These he enclosed in an envelope and gave it to George Deaves. The latter was already longing to turn back from this expedition, but Evan gave him no opening to do so.

It was about half-past ten when they left the bank. In case they should be under observation Evan had to find some plausible reason for delay. They taxied back to the Deaves house as if they had forgotten something, and then down-town again. They dismissed their cab in MacDougall street, and proceeded on foot according to instructions.

Few people in New York could lead you to Van Dorn street, but Evan happened to have marked it during his wanderings with Simeon Deaves. It is only three blocks long, from MacDougall street to the river; one of the forgotten streets of the real Greenwich Village, not the spurious. Down the first block extends a double row of little old red brick dwellings; number eleven was presumably one of these. The remaining blocks are given up to great storehouses.

It was not any too easy to time their arrival to a second without rousing the suspicions of anyone who might be watching them. Evan dared not consult his watch too often. He made careful calculations of the time they took to walk a block. As it was he arrived in sight of the corner some seconds too soon. He used up this time by asking the way of an Italian grocer who had no English.

It was ten seconds to eleven when Evan guided the shaking George Deaves into Van Dorn street, and they mounted the steps of number eleven precisely on the hour. A great bell was tolling as Evan pulled the old-fashioned knob. In the depths of the house a bell jangled. Evan’s heart was beating hard in his throat; George Deaves was as livid as a corpse nothing strange in that, though, if anybody was watching.

The little brick house with its beautiful old doorway and wrought iron railings was the very epitome of respectability they had left the swarming Italian quarter around the corner. With its shining brass knobs, neat window curtains and scrubbed steps one would have sworn that good, church-going people lived there but you never can tell!

There was no wagon or van in the block that might have contained the police, but it was only a hundred feet or so to the corner. Evan had faith in the inspector. As a matter of fact, the van was about half a minute late in arriving; not a very long time, but long enough to make a fatal difference in modern tactics.

They heard steps approaching the door from within still no sign of the police.

“Fumble for the envelope,” Evan swiftly whispered. “It’ll gain time.”

The door was opened by a woman as respectable in appearance as her house, in short a hard-working, middle-aged American woman with an expression slightly embittered perhaps as a result of the influx of “dagoes” in her neighbourhood. She looked at them enquiringly. George Deaves fumbled assiduously in his inside breast pocket.

“What is it?” she asked sharply.

“I have something for the gentleman up-stairs,” he muttered.

“Oh!” She waited five seconds more. “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t seem to find it.”

Still no sign of the police. Evan was on tenterhooks. To create a diversion he asked:

“Has the gentleman lived here long?”

“Only took the rooms yesterday. Hasn’t moved in yet.”

Evan’s heart went down. “Oh, then he isn’t in?”

“Yes, he and his friend are up there waiting for the furniture.”

She was evidently a victim rather than an accomplice. Still no sign of the police! George Deaves had not the assurance to keep up his pretended search. Evan signalled to him with a look to hand over the envelope. He did so with trembling hands.

At the same moment Evan, whose ears were stretched for sounds from within the house, heard a voice say, not loud: “They’re coming over the back fence!” And another voice answered: “Beat it, then.”

To Evan it was like the view halloo of the huntsman. He could not resist it. Never thinking of danger, he pushed past the astonished landlady and sprang for the stairs, pulling his pistol as he ran. As he left the stoop he had an impression of a motor van turning the corner from MacDougall.

The woman screamed, and George Deaves yelled to Evan to come back. The woman slammed the door in Deaves’ face with the impulse of keeping out at least one intruder. This was unfortunate for Evan, for it delayed the entrance of the police.

As Evan went up the first flight he heard flying feet on the stairs overhead, and he made no pause on the second floor. He heard a door on the third floor slam. It was in the front. Houses of this type have a window on the stair landing and Evan had no difficulty in seeing what he was about.

On the third floor there were four doors on the hall, all closed. Evan went directly to the door he had heard close, the door of the principal front room, and throwing it open, stepped back, half expecting a fusillade from within. But none came. After a moment he stepped to the door and looked in. The room was empty. But there was a door communicating with the rear.

That was as far as his observations carried him. Suddenly a suffocating cloud was thrown over his head from behind and drawn close about him.

A voice said: “Give him one; he’s heeled!”

A sickening blow descended on his skull. His strength became as water.
Still he did not lose consciousness.

A different voice said: “Let him lie! Come on!”

The first and more determined voice replied:

“Bring him, I tell you! It’s too good a chance to miss!”

A rope was hastily wound around Evan’s body, and he was partly dragged, partly boosted up a ladder and through a scuttle to the roof. The last sound he heard from the house was the trampling of heavy feet in the entry below. He was put down on the roof. He was still incapable of helping himself, but he heard all that went on as in a dream.

He heard them cover the scuttle. He heard the more resolute voice say: “Help me lift this slab from the parapet.” The other replied agitatedly: “Oh, what’s the use! Come on! Come on!” The first said: “Do what I tell you! Only one man can stand on the ladder at a time: he’ll have all he can do to push this up.”

A heavy object was dropped on the scuttle. Evan was then picked up between the two and carried over the roofs. They laid him down on the low parapet that separated each house from its neighbour, and jumping over, picked him up again. In this manner they crossed the roofs of six houses. Evan heard vague sounds of excitement from the street below.

He was put down again. One of his captors climbed above him: he heard his voice come down. With one pulling from above, and one boosting from below, with strenuous efforts Evan was hoisted to a higher roof. The second man climbed after. As he did so he said:

“They’re out.”

The other replied: “Bolt the door as you come through.”

A door slammed to behind them and was bolted. Evan was jolted down many stairs. Someone began to pound violently on the door above. Other doors on the way were opened. Women exclaimed in astonished Italian. “Out of the way! Out of the way!” commanded the resolute voice, and none sought to interfere.

They ran down a long passage and down a few steps to the open street again. Evan was carried across the pavement and flung into an automobile. The door slammed. Running feet were heard from another direction. The resolute voice said:

“Beat it!”

The car jerked into motion. A hoarse voice ordered them to stop. A pistol was fired. The bold voice said:

“Step on her hard!”

The car roared down the street with wide open exhaust, turned a corner on two wheels, and another corner, and soon outdistanced all sounds of pursuit.

The power of movement was coming back to Evan, but he still lay still; he was at too great a disadvantage to put up a struggle. That which enveloped him was a thick cotton comforter; it clove to his tongue, and the stuffy smell of it filled his nostrils. Moreover, he had a lively recollection of the blackjack or whatever it was that had laid him out in the beginning. It was useless to cry out; even if he should be heard above the noise of the engine, who could stop the flying car?

As his wits cleared he set them to work to try to puzzle out the direction in which he was being carried. He could tell from the lurch of the car whether they turned to the right or the left. In the beginning they turned so many corners that all sense of direction was lost, but after a while they struck a car-line and held to it for a long time. He knew they were running in car-tracks by the smoothness of their passage, broken by occasional bumpings as they slipped out of the rails. It was a street with little traffic, for their progress was rapid and uninterrupted.

Presently he heard an elevated train roar overhead, and he knew where he was. “Greenwich street or Ninth avenue,” he said to himself. As they still held to their car-line he knew they were bound up-town; headed the other way, they would have reached the end of the island before this. Bye and bye they coasted down a long hill and puffed up the other side. He guessed this to be the valley between Ninety-third street and One Hundred and Fourth, and presently knew he was right, when he heard the wheels of the elevated trains grinding on a curve high overhead. The Hundred and Tenth street curve, of course; there is no other such curve on the island.

The car turned to the right and then to the left again, still running in the rails. “Eighth avenue now,” he said to himself, “and still heading north.”

Later he heard a car-gong of a different timbre and the unmistakable hiss of a trolley wheel on its wire. There are no overhead wires on Manhattan Island except at the several points where the off-island railways terminate. “Union railway,” Evan said to himself. “We’ve reached the Harlem river.” Sure enough, they passed over a draw-bridge; the double clank-clank of the draw could not be mistaken. “Central Bridge,” thought Evan.

But in the smoothly paved streets of the Bronx he lost every clue to his whereabouts. They ran in the car tracks for a while, then left them; they made several right and left turns and crossed other tracks. Evan guessed they were in a well-travelled motor highway for he heard other cars, but that told him nothing; there are a dozen such highways radiating from Central Bridge.

He lay against the feet and legs of his two captors. He listened eagerly for any talk between them that might furnish him with a clue. But if they conversed it must have been in whispers. On one occasion, though, he heard him of the milder voice say:

“He’s so quiet! Do you suppose he’s all right?”

“Search me!” was the indifferent response. “His body is hot enough on my feet, I know.”

“Hadn’t I better look at him?”

“Sure! And print your face on his memory forever!”

“I believe that comforter is half suffocating him.”

“What of it? You can’t make a cake without breaking eggs.”

Gradually the noises of the street lessened, and Evan gathered that they were getting out into the sparsely settled districts. They were bowling along rapidly and smoothly. About twenty minutes after they had crossed Central Bridge (if Central Bridge it was) the more determined voice suddenly said to the chauffeur:

“Don’t turn in now. There’s a car behind. Run slow and let it pass. Then come back.”

This was evidently done. They turned in the road. As they came back the voice said:

“All clear. Go ahead in.”

The car turned to the right and jolted over what seemed to be a shallow ditch. The road that followed was of the roughest character. If it was a road at all it was a wood-track; Evan heard the twigs crackle under the tires. They lurched and bumped alarmingly. Once they had to stop to allow the chauffeur to drag some obstruction out of the way. Evidently they had not had the car that way before, for the chauffeur said anxiously:

“Are you sure we can get through?”

The resolute voice answered: “We’ve got to.”

The chauffeur said: “I couldn’t turn around here.”

The other voice replied: “There’s a clear space in front of the house.”

This way was not very long; a quarter of a mile, Evan guessed. They came to a stop, and the two men climbed out over Evan. He was unceremoniously dragged out feet foremost. They carried him a short distance Evan heard grass or verdure swishing around their legs. They entered a house and laid him down on a floor, a rough worn floor.

Here Evan heard a new voice, a woman’s voice with slurred accents and a fat woman’s laugh. The strong-voiced man said:

“Here’s a guest for you, Aunt Liza.”

“Lawsy! Lawsy! What divelment you been up to now!”

A general laugh went round. To the bound Evan it had a blackguardedly and infamous sound.

He was abruptly turned over on his face. While one man held the folds of the comforter tightly round his head, the other two knelt on his back and, pulling his arms behind him, tied his wrists together. Evan put up the best struggle he could against such heavy odds. The man who had taken the principal part against him laughed.

“You see, there’s life in him yet,” he said.

After his wrists they tied his ankles, and got up from him. The comforter was still over Evan’s head, and he was powerless to throw it off. The same voice said:

“After we’re out of the room you can uncover his head, and give him air. And feed him when dinner’s ready.”

A door closed.