that day he had done more than break a clay image of her. He
opened the door as if he would have called to Mrs. Kenny, then slammed
it, unable to speak from excitement, and a dogged look crossed his face.
The night was muggy, his throat burned with a sudden thirst, and he
exulted that it did so. On his empty room, empty to him for ever, for
the figure in the corner had disenchanted it of all its horrors for
fourteen happy days and nights, he looked once and then he fled. He
threw himself down the stairs and out into the late mid-summer night.

* * * * *

The coloured porter at the Delavan put him to bed at one o'clock in a
comfortable room. As the fellow's black face bent above him, Tony, who
saw it blur and waver before his intoxicated eyes, murmured--

"Emmy, Emmy, don't tell my mother, and wake me at seven, for I run out
at nine sharp."

CHAPTER XXIII

The paymaster, Peter Rainsford, had found little in West Albany to
excite the tepid interest he still retained in life, but Tony Fairfax,
the driver of Number Twenty-four, had attracted his attention. Each time
that Fairfax came to report Rainsford made a vain effort to engage him
in conversation. The agent wondered what the engine-driver's story was,
and having one of his own, hoped for Fairfax's sake that there was
anything but a class resemblance between them.

Detained late this night at his desk, he pushed back his lamp to
contemplate Tito Falutini, who, his hat pressed against his red flannel
breast, his teeth sparkling, came in to report. Tito told a tale in a
jargon which only an etymologist could have sifted into words.

"Well, what do you think has become of him?" Rainsford asked.

The Italian gesticulated with his hat far and wide.

"_You_ took the train to Fonda alone, without an engineer, Falutini? How
was it the fellows didn't stop you at Fonda? It doesn't seem possible."

The official opened a ledger and ran his eye over the names.

"I can put Steve Brodie on Number Twenty-four to-morrow morning. You
should have reported at once in West Albany, Falutini."

The name of Steve Brodie was intelligible to Tito. "Nota io," he said,
"not a fire for any man, only Toni."

Rainsford wrote a few moments in his ledger. "Want me to strike your
name right off the books now, Falutini? I've a good mind to do it
anyway. You should have reported at nine this morning."

"Want to find Fairfax," said the Italian.

The