There was no sign of any recognition; no word passed between them.
Three or four times they circled Chinatown in this way. Langford next dropped into a long, swinging stride and started up toward the railway tracks and out on to the high road of Coldcreek. Doggedly, limpet-like, Phil kept closely to him.
On, on he walked, mile after mile, untiring, apparently unheeding, looking neither to right nor left. And on, on, after him, almost at his side, went his determined friend.
In an hour, Jim cut down a side road and commenced to circle back by the low road, past the lake and once again toward the fairy, twinkling lights of Vernock.
The Post Office clock chimed the first hour of a new day, when they got back.
Jim stopped up in front of a stable, pushed his way inside––for the door was ajar––tumbled down in a corner among some hay and, apparently, was soon fast asleep.
Phil dropped down beside him, but did not close his eyes.
And glad he was of it, for, about an hour later, very stealthily Jim rose on his elbow, looked into Phil’s face, and, evidently satisfied that he was unconscious, rose and made softly for the door.
But when he turned to close it behind him, Phil was right by his side.