This recollection threw her into such a fit of trembling that she let fall her handkerchief. Before she could recover it, he bent forward with a quick swooping motion, seized it in his long fingers, and held it out to her. She took it trembling, hardly able to murmur, "Thank you".
He appeared about to speak.
Mildred rose in terror and retreated hastily to a place several seats back, across the aisle.
What would he do? Would he follow her? Were his eyes still fixed upon her? She dared not look; but a reflection in the window pane increased her fears.
Street after street went by. The last other passenger got off. Still he stayed. Mildred's furtive observations via the reflecting window pane never found him looking out to ascertain what part of town it was. Gradually she was forced to the sickening conviction that he was watching, not for any particular street, but to see where she would get off.
As her corner approached, she rang the bell. He rose. She moved quickly to the door. He followed her, smiling presumingly.
As she stepped down from the platform, her knees were so weak that she almost fell. Her heart pounded. Instead of running, as her terror prompted her to, she could with difficulty maintain a panting walk.
The man followed—not hurrying, but relentlessly, like an animal that is sure of its prey.
When she entered the doorway of the apartment house, he was barely ten yards behind her. She knew he would turn in also. He did.