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.To do that he would have to give Dorothy the facts so far denied to her but thatprospect could be faced after other problems had been solved-if it were possible to find acomplete solution.One alternative was to abandon his family and thus deprive searchers of a point ofcontact.He could not do that, risky though it might be to cling to them.He would not do it unlessforced by circumstances utterly beyond his control.Sentence of death would be such a circumstance.FOURIn the morning he left home by taxi, taking one suitcase and traveling light.Dorothystood in the driveway by the family car, smiling goodbye and making ready to take thechildren to school.The kids jigged up and down upon the lawn and waved him away.Itoccurred to him with a touch of panic that if he were picked up during the next few days thismight well be the last time he'd ever see them thus.Peering through the cab's rear windowhe drank in the view until a corner cut them off from sight.The cab made a brief stop at the local bank while he withdrew a modest sum.A largeramount would make things easier for him but harder for Dorothy if events proved againsttheir earlier reunion.He had to strike a compromise between his immediate needs and herfuture ones.They had saved assiduously without piling up enough to splurge.From there he went to the station.The cab rolled away and left him warily seekingfamiliar faces.There weren't any around just then, for which he was profoundly thankful.Hewas going to town an hour later than usual and that saved him from the inquisitiveness offellow commuters.The train took him away.He arrived in town without untoward incident, and became aslost in scurrying millions as a grain in a truckload of sand.There was no plan in his mindother than that of ridding himself of all followers while he sought a means of coping with his woes.He had the vague idea that the past cannot easily catch up with one who movesaround, therefore the essential thing was to keep moving, erratically, without foreseeablesystem.More or less aimlessly he tramped along crowded sidewalks, his suitcase hanging athis side, until suddenly he found himself at the main-line station.Then and only then did herealize that some independent and unhampered portion of his mind had steered him here,having decided his route from the start.It seemed strange, he thought, that a confused andapprehensive brain could retain a small section capable of calm thought and readycommand.Since he was little given to self-examination it did not occur to him that abasically emotional problem can swirl over but never drown a basically analytical mind.Anyway, he obeyed the inward order or instinct or whatever it was.Entering the stationhe went to a ticket window and gazed owl-eyed at the clerk as it dawned upon him that hemust now declare his destination.One could not ask for a ticket to somewhere safe, beyondreach of the law.One must name a place of one's choice, any place, even the first one thatcomes to mind.Indeed, his mouth opened to form the word but he bit it back in the nick oftime: the same word he had voiced to Dorothy when called upon to answer without thinking.The other portion of his mind, the part remaining craftily alert, held the word back.If theycome looking for you, it argued, they'll trace you to town and rake the train and bus stationsfor someone who remembers the item they wish to learn.They'll talk to this clerk visit-andsay too much.Don't take a chance on him.hundreds of people per day he may have anexcellent memory and find some obscure reason to recall your visit-and say too much.Don'tanyone.take a chance on him.Don't take a chance on All the characters rotting in jails arethe stupid ones who accepted unnecessary risks.Bransome bought a ticket to a big city three-quarters of the way to where he reallywanted to go.Pocketing the ticket, he picked up his case, turned around and almostbumped into a tall, lean man with crew-cut hair and gimlet eyes."Well now, Mr.Bransome," said Reardon pleasantly but showing no great surprise."Giving yourself a vacation?""With official permission," informed Bransome, making a gigantic effort to controlhimself."People do take time off once in a while.""Of course," approved Reardon."Sure they do." He looked with pointed interest at theother's case, his air being that of one able to see right inside anything at which he gazed."Have yourself a good time.""That is my intention." Then resentment sparked and Bransome demanded, "What areyou doing here, anyway?""The same as yourself." Reardon gave a half-smile."I'm going somewhere.We wouldn'thappen to be going the same way, would we?""I've no idea," Bransome riposted, "not knowing your destination.""Oh, well, what does it matter?" said Reardon, refusing to bite.He eyed the stationclock, edged toward the ticket window."Have to hurry.Be seeing you sometime.""Maybe," said Bransome, showing no ecstasy at the prospect.He made for his train, relieved and yet not relieved at getting rid of Reardon.His mindwas jumpier than a cat at a fireworks display.Meeting the fellow here seemed too much forcoincidence.He had a swift, wary look around as he passed through the gates.There wasno sign of Reardon at that moment.Ten minutes passed before the train pulled out; he spent the time edgily expectingunwanted company.If Reardon were trailing him and had documentary authority to prove hisright to twist the arm of the ticket clerk, it would be easy for him to demand a ticket as issuedto the previous buyer and board the same train.The last thing Bransome wanted was thesnoop's face on the opposite seat, with several hours of conversation to be handled cagily,endless pointed remarks and penetrating questions to be fended off.He kept anxious watchthrough the window but eventually the train moved out with nothing to show that Reardon hadcaught it. * * *Reaching the terminal after an uneventful trip, Bransome walked haphazardly around thecity and kept surreptitious watch behind him but failed to spot a follower of any kind.Hetreated himself to an indifferent meal, mooched about a little longer and returned to thestation.So far as he could tell nobody had tracked him thus far and nobody was hangingaround the station entrance in expectation of his reappearance.At the ticket window he said, "I want to get to Burleston.""No rail service to that place," replied the clerk."Nearest station is Hanbury, twenty-fourmiles away.A bus will take you from Hanbury to Burleston.""All right.Fix me up for Hanbury.What time is the next train?""You're in luck.Two minutes from now.Track Nine-and you'd better hustle."Grabbing his ticket, Bransome galloped across the waiting room and through the gateto Track Nine.He made it nicely; the train started to move before he was settled in his seat.That gave him much satisfaction; he felt that the speed of his departure must have shakenoff pursuit if indeed he really was being pursued.Here was the curse of being burdened with a past dragged willy-nilly into the presentand making the present equally grim: the constant, unshakable, never-ending sensation ofbeing watched, suspected, followed.The obsession of being surrounded by eyes thatstared and saw the truth and accused.Why did I kill Arline?There was a faint queasiness in his stomach as he pondered the question
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