He uttered a cry like a beast of prey as he shook her off; but he felt himself shiver, conscience making him a coward, and he hurried out, reaching by an exit the alley leading to a side street.
A police lieutenant suddenly barred his way.
“Not so fast there,” said the functionary.
Boland recognized the man as an officer whom he had once placed under obligation to him.
“Good evening, Murphy.”
“Yes. I was passing and heard the shot. You understand, of course, that I wish to avoid being seen here. Do you know where I can find a taxi?”
The policeman turned and summoned a taxicab with a gesture. Boland got in at the open door. He leaned forward and spoke with peculiar force, although very low:
“If my son, Harry Boland, happens to pass by here, see that he gets into a taxi whose driver will bring him to my house, to my house, remember, no matter what address he gives.”
“I understand, sir.” Probably the young man’s been misbehaving, was what he thought.