l evening:
a train's a mighty mean place for the day after. But I wouldn't hang
around here too long. If you want money, all you have to do is to ask
the hotel to cash a check on your home bank; they're always glad to
do that for Americans." He turned to the door. "Mr. Cornish, if you're
goin' to help me about shipping the car, I'm ready."

"So am I. Good-by, Mr. Mellin."

"Good-by," Mellin said feebly--"and thank you."

Young Cooley came back to the bedside and shook the other's feverish
hand. "Good-by, ole man. I'm awful sorry it's all happened, but I'm glad
it didn't cost you quite as much money as it did me. Otherwise I expect
it's hit us about equally hard. I wish--I wish I could find a _nice
one_"--the youth gulped over something not unlike a sob--"as fascinatin'
as her!"

Most people have had dreams of approaching dangers in the path of which
their bodies remained inert; when, in spite of the frantic wish to fly,
it was impossible to move, while all the time the horror crept closer
and closer. This was Mellin's state as he saw the young man going. It
was absolutely necessary to ask Cooley for help, to beg him for a loan.
But he could not.

He saw Cooley's hand on the doorknob; saw the door swing open.

"Good-by, again," Cooley said; "and good luck to you!"

Mellin's will strove desperately with the shame that held him silent.

The door was closing.

"Oh, Cooley," called Mellin hoarsely.

"Yes. What?"

"J-j-just good-by," said Mellin.

And with that young Cooley was gone.

IX. Expiation

A multitudinous clangor of bells and a dozen neighboring chimes rang
noon; then the rectangular oblongs of hot sunlight that fell from the
windows upon the carpet of Mellin's room began imperceptibly to shift
their angles and move eastward. From the stone pavement of the street
below came the sound of horses pawing and the voices of waiting cabmen;
then bells again, and more bells; clamoring the slow and cruel afternoon
into the past. But all was silent in Mellin's room, save when, from time
to time, a long, shuddering sigh came from the bed.

The unhappy young man had again drawn the coverlet over his head, but
not to sleep: it was more like a forlorn and desperate effort to hide,
as if he crept into a hole, seeking darkness to cover the shame and fear
that racked his soul. For though his shame had been too great to let him
confess to young Cooley and ask for help, his fear was as great as
his shame; a