Gone was the shuffling gait.
Quick, alert, he ran, crouching, bent down, along the alleyway, reached the side door, opened it stealthily, closed it behind him with equal caution, and, in the dark entry, stood motionless, listening intently.
There was no sound.

He began to mount the rickety, dilapidated stairs; and, where it seemed that the lightest tread must make them creak out in blatant protest, his trained muscles, delicately compensating his body weight, carried him upward with a silence that was almost uncanny.

There was need of silence, as there was need of haste.

He was not so sure now of the time at his disposal--that he had even reached the Sanctuary FIRST.

How long had he loitered in that half-dazed way on the Bowery?
He did not know--perhaps longer than he had imagined.