He heard the man ask for a ticket to
Torresdale, a little station just outside of Philadelphia, and when he
was out of hearing, but not out of sight, purchased one for the same
place.
The stranger went into the smoking-car, and seated himself at one end
toward the door. Gallegher took his place at the opposite end.
He was trembling all over, and suffered from a slight feeling of
nausea. He guessed it came from fright, not of any bodily harm that
might come to him, but at the probability of failure in his adventure
and of its most momentous possibilities.
The stranger pulled his coat collar up around his ears, hiding the
lower portion of his face, but not concealing the resemblance in his
troubled eyes and close-shut lips to the likenesses of the murderer
Hade.
They reached Torresdale in half an hour, and the stranger, alighting
quickly, struck off at a rapid pace down the country road leading to
the station.
Gallegher gave him a hundred yards' start, and then followed slowly
after. The road ran between fields and past a few frame-houses set far
from the road in kitchen gardens.
Once or twice the man looked back over his shoulder, but he saw only a
dreary length of road with a small boy splashing through the slush in
the midst of it and stopping every now and again to throw snowballs at
belated sparrows.
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