Question

Except for a few pigeons, Central Park was deserted. Mist hung above the chilled grass. Patches of old snow, scattered here and there, looked like white puddles. The sun hung just above the horizon, casting red and orange streaks across low-hanging clouds. The portly, gray-haired gentleman jogging down the path looked out of place. For one thing, he was dressed in ordinary street clothes, not a sweat suit. Also, every few seconds, he looked anxiously back over his shoulder. Coming closer to me, I saw that his face was flushed. He was panting, almost gasping. Abruptly, looking this way and th