Opdyke came out alone ten minutes later. Afterward I learned that his companion lived at the hotel.
He started down Fifth avenue. I moved along on the other side of the way.
Once he looked round, and I knew that he was looking at me.
Did he suspect?
Evidently, for he crossed right over and managed to get behind me. I grew nervous, but there was no safe way but to keep straight on.
How keenly I listened to the ring of his footsteps I’ll never tell you. I still heard them; he was coming toward me—not going back.
“He don’t suspect,” I muttered. “Perhaps, after all, I’m wrong.”
Soon he passed me, for I had slackened my pace. He never turned his eyes, though, but just walked straight across the square, passed the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and I saw him stop and speak to a hack driver on the Twenty-third street side.
Now, here is where what Old King Brady called my fine work came in.[1] I saw Mr. Opdyke enter that hack, and I saw the driver leap on the box and whip up his horses, but I did not make the mistake of thinking that my man was inside.
Why?