Thus aided, he caught another glimpse of
his prey midway down the next flight, and checked to take a second
shot.
Again he missed; and as the bullet buried itself in splintering
wainscoting, a cry of almost childish petulence escaped him. With but
one thought, he hurled on, swung round to the head of the stairs, saw
his man at the bottom, pulled up to aim, and....
Beneath him a small rug slipped on polished parquetry of the landing.
P. Sybarite's heels went up and his head down with a sickening thump.
He heard his pistol explode once more, and again visioned a reeling
firmament fugitively coruscant with strange constellations.
Then--bounding up with uncommon resiliency--he saw the street door of
the house close behind the fugitive and heard the heavy slam of it.
In another breath, pulling himself together, he was up and descending
three and four steps at a stride. Reaching the door, he threw it open
and himself heedlessly out and down a high stone stoop to the
sidewalk--pulled up, bewildered to discover himself the sole living
thing visible in all that night-hushed stretch between Fifth Avenue
and Sixth: of the assassin there was neither sign nor sound....
He felt perilously on the verge of tears--would gladly have bawled and
howled with temper--and gained little relief from another short-lived
break of heartfelt profanity--something halting and inexpert, truth to
tell.
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