But there was no time to lose. If the man should escape him
now he might never see him again, he might never hear from his lips
whether the dreadful story was really and positively true. He felt
that Rhyming Joe would not lie to him to-night, nor deceive him, nor
deny his request to make the truth known to those who ought to know
it, if he could only find him and speak to him, and if the man could
only see how utterly miserable he was. He plunged in among the Sunday
evening saunterers, and hurried up the street, looking to the right
and to the left, before and behind him, hastening on as he could. Once
he thought he saw, just ahead, the object of his search. He ran up to
speak to him, looked into his face, and--it was some one else.
Finally he reached the head of the avenue and turned up toward the
Dunmore road. Then he came back, crossed over, and went down on the
other side of the street. Block after block he traversed, looking into
the face of every man he met, glancing into doorways and dark corners,
making short excursions into side streets; block after block, until
he reached the Hyde Park bridge. He was tired and disheartened as he
turned back and wondered what he should do next. Then it occurred to
him that he had promised to meet Mr. Sharpman that night. Perhaps the
lawyer was still waiting for him. Perhaps, if he should appeal to him,
the lawyer would help him to find Rhyming Joe, and to make the truth
known before injustice should be done.
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