heavy black tin box hauled into position and unlocked. With the raising
of the scarred and dented top a mass of letters and papers came into
view, filling the box to the brim--some tied with red tape, others in
big envelopes. In a corner lay some photographs--one in a gilt frame,
the edge showing clear of the tissue-paper in which it was wrapped. This
he took out and studied long and earnestly, his lips tightly pressed
together. Retying the paper, he tucked them all back into place, turned
the key, shook the box to see that the lock held tight, picked it up
with one hand by its side handle, and, throwing open the door, deposited
it on the landing outside. Its leather companion was then placed beside
it, the hat-case crowning the whole.

Mike's voice was now heard in the narrow front hall. "How fur is it up,
mum? Oh, another flight! Begorra, it's as dark as a coal-hole and about
as dirty!" This was followed by: "Oh, is that you, sor? How many pieces
have you?"

"Only two, Mike; and the mackintosh and hat-case," answered Felix, who
had watched him stumbling up the stairs until his red face was level
with the landing. "By the way, mind you don't lose the rubber coat, for,
although I never wear an overcoat, this comes in well when it rains."

"I'll never take me eyes off it. I bet ye niver bought that down on the
Bowery from a Johnny-hand-me-down!"

"And, Mike!"

"Yes, sor?"

"Will you please say to Mrs. Cleary that I may not be in to-night before
eleven o'clock?"

"Eleven! Why that's the shank o' the evenin' for her, sor. If it was
twelve, or after, she'd be up." Then he bent forward and whispered: "I
should think ye would be glad, sor, to get out of this rookery."

Felix nodded in assent, waited until the leather trunk had been dumped
into the wagon, watched Mike remount the stairs until he had reached his
landing, helped him to load up the balance of his luggage--the tin
box on one shoulder, the coat over the other, the hat-case in the free
hand--and then walked back to his empty room. Here he made a thoughtful
survey of the dismal place in which he had spent so many months, picked
up his blackthorn stick, and, leaving the door ajar, walked slowly
down-stairs, his hand on the rail as a guide in the dark.

"And you aren't comin' back, sir?" remarked the landlady, who had
listened for his steps.

"That, madame, one never can tell."

"Well, you are always welcome."

"Thank you--good-by."

"Good-by, sir; my