The back door of Bristol Bob's opened and closed.

The man had gone in.
For a moment Jimmie Dale stood hesitant.

There was a wild surging in his brain, something like a myriad batteries of trip hammers seemed to be pounding at his temples.

Then, almost blindly, he kept on down the lane in the same direction in which he had started to retreat--as well one cross street as another.
He turned into the cross street, went along it--and presently emerged into the full tide of the Bowery.

It was garishly lighted; people swarmed about him.