He
felt ashamed and disgraced by his defeat. Life for him had lost its
savor, for he had met his master.
"She--got away."
"How?"
"They turned her loose, to duck the bulls," came the slow, sullen
answer.
"Where?"
"In Central Park."
Probably this was the truth, Clay reflected. He could take the man's
word or not as he pleased. There was no way to disprove it now.
He recovered his revolver, threw the automatic out of the window, and
walked to the door.
"Joe's tied up in a back room," he said over his shoulder.
Thirty seconds later Clay stepped into the street. He walked across to
a subway station and took an uptown train.
Men looked at him curiously. His face was bruised and bleeding, his
clothes disheveled, his hat torn. Clay grinned and thought of the old
answer:
"They'd ought to see the other man."
One young fellow, apparently a college boy, who had looked upon the
wine when it was red, was moved to come over and offer condolence.
"Say, I don't want to butt in or anything, but--he didn't do a thing to
you, did he?"
"I hit the edge of a door in the dark," explained Clay solemnly.
"That door must have had several edges." The youth made a confidential
admission. "I've got an edge on myself, sort of."
"Not really?" murmured Clay politely.
"Surest thing you know. Say, was it a good scrap?"
"I'd hate to mix in a better one."
"Wish I'd been there." The student fumbled for a card. "Didn't catch
your name?"
Clay had no intention of giving his name just now to any casual
stranger.
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