nsistency that he never
even contemplated the idea of working for a living. And now here he
was, back in New York, with Hoboken an exhausted field, with no
resources, no hopes, no future that his brandy-soaked brain could
discern.

His mane was still golden and bushy; but it was ragged and too long in
front of the ears and also on his neck. His face still expressed
insolence and vanity; but it had a certain tragic bitterness, as if it
were trying to portray the emotions of a lofty spirit flinging defiance
at destiny from a slough of despair. It was plain that he had been
drinking heavily--the whites of his eyes were yellow and bloodshot, the
muscles of his eyelids and mouth twitched disagreeably. His romantic
hat and collar and graceful suit could endure with good countenance
only the most casual glance of the eye.

Mr. Feuerstein had come to New York to perform a carefully-planned last
act in his life-drama, one that would send the curtain down amid tears
and plaudits for Mr. Feuerstein, the central figure, enwrapped in a
somber and baleful blaze of glory. He had arranged everything except
such details as must be left to the inspiration of the moment. He was
impatient for the curtain to rise--besides, he had empty pockets and
might be prevented from his climax by a vulgar arrest for vagrancy.

At one o'clock Hilda was in her father's shop alone. The rest of the
family were at the midday dinner. As she bent over the counter, near
the door, she was filling a sheet of wrapping paper with
figures--calculations in connection with the new business. A shadow
fell across her paper and she looked up. She shrank and clasped her
hands tightly against her bosom. "Mr. Feuerstein!" she exclaimed in a
low, agitated voice.

He stood silent, his face ghastly as if he were very ill. His eyes,
sunk deep in blue-black sockets, burned into hers with an intensity
that terrified her. She began slowly to retreat.

"Do not fly from me," he said in a hollow voice, leaning against the
counter weakly. "I have come only for a moment. Then--you will see me
never again!"

She paused and watched him. His expression, his tone, his words filled
her with pity for him.

"You hate me," he went on. "You abhor me. It is just--just! Yet"--he
looked at her with passionate sadness--"it was because I loved you that
I deceived you. Because--I--loved you!"

"You must go away," said Hilda, pleading rather than commanding.
"You've done me