There was something of the look of the hunted animal brought to bay
at last in Carlton Dunlap's face as he let himself into his
apartment late one night toward the close of the year. On his
breath was the lingering odor of whisky, yet in his eye and hand
none of the effects. He entered quietly, although there was no
apparent reason for such excessive caution. Then he locked the door
with the utmost care, although there was no apparent reason for
caution about that, either. Even when he had thus barricaded
himself, he paused to listen with all the elemental fear of the
cave man who dreaded the footsteps of his pursuers. In the dim
light of the studio apartment he looked anxiously for the figure of
his wife. Constance was not there, as she had been on other nights,
uneasily awaiting his return. What was the matter? His hand shook a
trifle now as he turned the knob of the bedroom door and pushed it
softly open.
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