As John leaned back in his seat in the cab, Bliss said kindly:
“You look worn out, Norton.”
“I am tired,” he admitted; but beyond his fatigue and weariness he was feeling a sense of peace, security and hope. His old ambition, long dead, as he told himself, stirred within him. After all,—after all the waiting and doubt and fear, success had come at last when he least expected it. The cab drew up before the dingy flat-house where he lived, and John sprang lightly to the pavement. They entered the building. It was still quite dark in the narrow halls, but as they came to the landing before his own door John gave a start. Two men were standing there; one was Haviland, and the other a stranger. Over their shoulders he caught a glimpse of Alice's white scared face. Hearing his steps, Haviland turned with a hungry wolfish look.
“This is the man,” he said shortly. “Arrest him.”
The stranger moved forward, but Bliss, coming slowly up the dark stairs, said gently:
“It's too late. It's no use—I wouldn't do that!”
He took the warrant from the detective's hand and tore it into long strips, while he and Haviland gazed into each other's eyes.