He reached forth his hand and Wilson grasped it.
“I will.”
“Well, s’long, old man. Good luck again.”
He spoke to the chauffeur. In less than a minute Wilson was alone again on the street where he had stood the night before.
CHAPTER VII
The Game Continues
It was almost noon, which made it eight hours since Wilson was carried out of the house. He had had less than four hours’ sleep and only the slight nourishment he had received at the hospital since he and the girl dined at midnight, yet he was now fairly strong. His head felt sore and bruised, but he was free of the blinding ache which so weakened him in the morning. An austere life together with the rugged constitution he inherited from his Puritan ancestors was now standing him in good stead. He turned into the narrow street which ran along the water front in the rear of the Beacon Street houses and began his search for the gate which had admitted him to so many unforeseen complications. The river which had raged so turbulently in the dark was now as mild and blue as the sky above. A few clouds, all that were left of the threatening skies of the morning, scudded before a westerly breeze. It was a fair June day––every house flooded with sunshine until, however humble, it looked for the moment like a sultan’s palace. The path before him was no longer a blind alley leading from danger into chaos.