a cab," said Breitmann. "It has stopped
raining, and the walk will tone me up. Good night and good luck."

And they parted, neither ever expecting to see the other again, and
equally careless whether they did or not.

Breitmann walked rapidly toward the river, crossed, and at length
entered a gloomy old _pension_ over a restaurant frequented by
bargemen, students, and human driftwood. As he climbed the badly
lighted stairs, a little, gray-haired man, wearing spectacles, passed
him, coming down. A "pardon" was mumbled, and the little man proceeded
into the restaurant, picked a _Figaro_ from the table littered with
newspapers, ensconced himself in a comfortable chair, and ordered
coffee. No one gave him more than a cursory glance. The quarter was
indigent, but ordinarily respectable; and it was only when some noisy
Americans invaded the place that the habitues took any unusual interest
in the coming and going of strangers.

Up under the mansard roof there was neither gas nor electricity.
Breitmann lighted his two candles, divested himself of his collar, tie,
and coat, and flung them on the bed.

"Threadbare, almost! Ah, but I was hungry to-night. Did he know it?
Why the devil should I care? To work! Up to this night I have tried
to live more or less honestly. I have tried to take the good that is
in me and to make the most of it. And," ironically, "this is the
result. I have failed. Now we'll see what I can accomplish in the way
of being a great rascal."

He knelt before a small steamer trunk, battered and plentifully
labeled, and unscrewed the lock. From a cleverly concealed pocket he
brought forth a packet of papers. These he placed on the table and
unfolded with almost reverent care. Sometimes he shrugged, as one does
who is confronted by huge obstacles, sometimes he laughed harshly,
sometimes his jaws hardened and his fingers writhed. When he had
done--and many and many a time he had repeated this performance,
studied the faded ink, the great seal, the watermarks--he hid them away
in the trunk again.

He now approached the open window and leaned out. Glittering Paris,
wonderful city! How the lights from the bridges twinkled on the
wind-wrinkled Seine! Over there lay the third wealth of the world;
luxury, vice, pleasure. Eh, well, he could not fight it, but he could
curse it deeply and violently, which he did.

"Wait, Moloch, wait; you and I are not done with each other yet! Wait!
I sha