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On the Twentieth Century in his compartment—which he had engaged with confidence that it would assure him complete privacy—Ambrose reflected that his escape from New York had been accomplished more easily than he would have believed possible. His manager had come to the train to see him off, leaving behind as a token of farewell the huge basket of tropical fruits which now reposed on the opposite seat, but, on Ambrose's insistence, the newspapers had not been warned of his prospective departure and so no one else had appeared on the station platform. Nevertheless, Ambrose was disturbed in mind. He was doing something he didn't want to do because he found it impossible to do something else he did want to do. Voluntary action of a definite character was foreign to Ambrose's habit and his consciousness forewarned him that in his excessive zeal he had fled from one difficult situation only to seek consolation in the unknown, a favour that the unknown might refuse to bestow.

The steam heat was insufferable. His window already raised, he pulled the door ajar to create a