ct compliance with the law of the
city fathers, yet a slender wand of bright light might be discovered
underneath the street door of the bar-room.

From within the merry retreat issued an uproar of shouting, raucous
laughter and the pounding of glasses on tables, heralding all too
plainly the hypocrisy of the landlord, and possibly that of the city
fathers also. Tom knew what company was gathered there: gamblers,
truckmen, drunken farmers, men from the river steamers making riot
while their boats lay at the wharf, with a motley gathering of
good-for-nothings of the back-alleys, and tippling clerks from the Main
Street stores. There came loud cries for a song, and, in answer, the
voice of Crailey rose over the general din, somewhat hoarse, and
never so musical when he sang as when he spoke, yet so touching in its
dramatic tenderness that soon the noise fell away, and the roisterers
sat quietly to listen. It was not the first time Ben Jonson's song had
stilled a disreputable company.

"I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee, As giving it
the hope that there It might not withered be."

Perhaps, just then, Vanrevel would have wished to hear him sing anything
in the world rather than that, for on Crailey's lips it carried too much
meaning tonight, after the voice in the garden. And Tom lingered no more
near the betraying sliver of light beneath the door than he had by the
gap in the hedge, but went steadily on his way.

Not far from the hotel he passed a small building brightly lighted
and echoing with unusual clamors of industry: the office of the Rouen
Journal. The press was going, and Mr. Cummings's thin figure crossed
and recrossed the windows, while his voice could be heard energetically
bidding his assistants to "Look alive!" so that Tom imagined that
something might have happened between the Nueces River and the Rio
Grande; but he did not stop to ask the journalist, for he desired to
behold the face of none of his friends until he had fought out some
things within himself. So he strode on toward nowhere.

Day was breaking when Mr. Gray climbed the stairs to his room. There
were two flights, the ascent of the first of which occupied about half
an hour of Crailey's invaluable time; and the second might have taken
more of it, or possibly consumed the greater part of the morning, had he
received no assistance. But, as he reclined to meditate upon the first
landing, another man entered the hallway f