Police whistles were calling behind him, nearer and nearer, but he walked boldly out into the street and up to Sixth Avenue.

His nerves were tingling and his breathing was hard to control after the mad dash through the alley, but he slouched along in the lee of the buildings to escape the downpour, stopping near the corner.
Suddenly he rushed out and hailed a passing cab, climbed inside and gave orders to drive as quickly as possible to the Twenty-third Street Ferry.
Then he sat up boldly and stared forth with all the courage that his escape inspired.
"By Jove," he was shouting inwardly, "that poor devil was on my heels.
He looked hard as he hustled past, but I stared back just as hard.

It took nerve to face him.

Hang it all, I'm sorry for him.

He wasn't to blame.