Under cover of the newspaper he slid his left hand over to the detective’s waistcoat.
It was a moment of horrible anxiety as his fingers touched a key.
But Detective Jones was still dead to the world.
Next moment the key snapped in the lock and Parks was free.
A swift glance around assured him that his actions had not been observed.
Emboldened by his success, he rifled the pockets of the sleeping detective.
“I’ll need a few extra dollars,” he told himself, though he despised this petty theft.
At the next stop he left his seat, and, mingling with the other travelers, passed out.
CHAPTER XI.
THE FUGITIVE.
“Now where am I to go?”