Again that trained, long-practiced, silent tread upon the stairs.

It seemed as though an hour passed before he reached the bottom, and his brain was shrieking at him to hurry, hurry, HURRY! The entryway at last, the door, the alleyway, a long breath of relief--and he was on the cross street.
A step, two, he took in the direction of the Bowery--and he was bending down as though to tie his shoe, his automatic, from his side pocket, concealed in his hand.

WAS THAT SOME ONE THERE?
He could have sworn he saw a shadow-like form start out from behind the steps of the house on the opposite side of the street as he had emerged from the alleyway.
In his bent posture, without seemingly turning his head, his eyes swept sharply up and down the other side of the ill-lighted street.

Nothing! There was not even a pedestrian in sight on the block from there to the Bowery.
Jimmie Dale straightened up nonchalantly, and stooped almost instantly again, as though the lace were still proving refractory.

Again that sharp, searching glance.