Nothing seemed to help. Heavy clothes, nourishing foods, whisky, vigorous exercise—nothing brought him the warmth he was beginning to crave as an addict craves dope.
Desperately, he resumed his trip, traveling by air and then by train, and finally grasping at any means of transportation that happened to be most convenient. The cold traveled with him. It enveloped him like a shell. It was an invisible prison, shutting him away from the world of warmth.
The climate grew increasingly mild and balmy as he progressed southward. But the chill that always surrounded him grew worse.
More often, now, he thought of Cahill's grim promise. "I'm going to get you. I'm going to make you pay." It repeated itself over and over in his mind. It was emphasized by the invisible blanket of cold wrapped inescapably about him.
Once, in a hotel room where he had been drinking steadily, Hager's despair rose in him to the point of madness. He leaped from the bed, hurling an empty whisky bottle against the wall, screaming mingled curses and entreaties.
"Damn you, Cahill, leave me alone! Haven't you had enough? How much longer are you going to keep torturing me? Leave me alone, do you hear? Leave me alone!"
Cahill didn't seem to hear. Or if he did, he paid no attention. The cold stayed.
ager began to lose weight. His stocky figure became gaunt, his cheeks sunken. Dark hollows cupped his feverishly bright eyes. His hands trembled. He jerked nervously at sudden noises.