As he stood there, the fear that his sight might grow suddenly dim, that he might in consequence fail in recognition of those Eyes so constantly on the lookout for him, suddenly increased. He grew afraid, at last, to look up—What if the Eyes should be there! He bore the ever-increasing horror as long as he could, then—better starve and have done with it than die like a dog from sheer fright!—he stepped cautiously, softly, starting at the crackle of the ice under his tread, off the curbstone into the street. So far he was safe. He kept his head low, and walked carelessly towards Third Avenue. When nearing the corner he determined he would look up. He took the middle of the street. It cost him a supreme effort to raise his eyes, to look stealthily about him, behind, before, to right, to left—
What was that in the dark area archway! His sight blurred for the moment, so increasing the blackness of impending horror; then, under the influence of this last applied stimulus, his sight grew preternaturally keen. He discerned one moving form—two—three; to his over-strained nerves there seemed a whole posse behind them. Oh, the Eyes, the Eyes that were so constantly on him! Could he never rid himself of them! He bent his head to the sleeting blast and darted down the middle of the street to Second Avenue.
He knew now the alternative.
After a possible five seconds of hesitation the three men gave chase. It was the make of the man, his motion as he started to run, the running itself as Champney took the middle of the street, by which Father Honoré marked him. It was just such a start, just such running, as the priest had seen many a time on the football field when the goal, which should decide for victory, was to be made. He recognized it at once.
"That's he!" He spoke under his breath to the two men; the three started in pursuit.
But Champney Googe was running to goal, and the old training stood him in good stead. He was across Second Avenue before the men were half way down Tenth Street; down Eighth Street towards East River he fled, but at First he doubled on his tracks and eluded them. They lost him as he turned into Second Avenue again; not a footstep showed on the ice-coated pavement. They stopped at a telephone station to notify the police at the Brooklyn Bridge terminals, then paused to draw a long breath.
"You're sure 't was him?" One of the detectives appealed to Father Honoré.
"Yes, I'm sure."
"He give us the slip this time; he knew we was after him," the other panted rather than spoke, for the long run had winded him. "I never see such running—and look at the glare of ice! He'd have done me up in another block."
"Well, the hunt's up for to-night, anyway. There's no use tobogganning round after such a hare at this time of night," said the other, wiping the wet snow from the inside of his coat collar.