husband's out or he would like to shake your hand."

O'Day bowed slightly and stepped into the street, his stick under his
arm, his hands hooked behind his back. That he had no immediate purpose
in view was evident from the way he loitered along, stopping to look at
the store windows or to scrutinize the passing crowd, each person intent
on his or her special business. By the time he had reached Broadway the
upper floors of the business buildings were dark, but the windows of
the restaurants, cigar shops, and saloons had begun to blaze out and a
throng of pleasure seekers to replace that of the shoppers and workers.
This aspect of New York appealed to him most. There were fewer people
moving about the streets and in less of a hurry, and he could study them
the closer.

In a cheap restaurant off Union Square he ate a spare and inexpensive
meal, whiled away an hour over the free afternoon papers, went out to
watch an audience thronging into one of the smaller theatres, and then
boarded a down-town car. When he reached Trinity Church the clock was
striking, and, as he often did when here at this hour, he entered the
open gate and, making his way among the shadows sat down, on a flat
tomb. The gradual transition from the glare and rush of the up-town
streets to the sombre stillness of this ancient graveyard always seemed
to him like the shifting of films upon a screen, a replacement of the
city of the living by the city of the dead. High up in the gloom soared
the spire of the old church, its cross lost in shadows. Still
higher, their roofs melting into the dusky blue vault, rose the great
office-buildings, crowding close as if ready to pounce upon the small
space protected only by the sacred ashes of the dead.

For some time he sat motionless, listening to the muffled peals of the
organ. Then the humiliating events of the last twenty-four hours began
crowding in upon his memory: the insolent demands of his landlady; the
guarded questions of Kling when he inspected the dressing-case; the look
of doubt on both their faces and the changes wrought in their manner and
speech when they found he was able to pay his way. Suddenly something
which up to that moment he had held at bay gripped him.

"It was money, then, which counted," he said to himself, forgetting for
the moment Kitty's refusal to take it. And if money were so necessary,
how long could he earn it? Kling would soon discover how useless he
was, and then the tin bo