isan was deprecatory, if his manners were revealing his feelings. He
was apologetic in his mien before he spoke; he gave Mern the impression
of a man whose spirit was broken and whose estimate of himself had gone
far toward condemnation. And Mern read aright! The bitter dregs of days
and nights of doleful meditation were in Latisan--the memory of aimless
venturings into this or that corner where he could hide away, the
latest memory of the stale little room in a cheap New York hotel
persisting most vividly in his shamed thoughts because he had penned
himself there day after day, trying to make up his mind to do this or
that--and, especially at the nadir of what he felt was his utter
degradation, had he dwelt on the plan of ending it all, and from time to
time had turned on a gas jet and sniffed at the evil fumes, wondering of
what sort would be death by that means. To think that he would descend
to that depth of cowardice! Nevertheless, he was not especially
surprised by this weakness, even while he hated himself for entertaining
such a base resolve. One after the other, right and left, the blows in
his business affairs had crashed down on him. He understood those
attacks, and he was still able to fight on. But the enemy that had
ambuscaded him behind the guise of the first honest love of his
experience had killed faith and pride and every tender emotion that
enables a man to fight the ordinary battles of life.

Therefore, he ventured into the presence of Mern with down-hunched
shoulders under the sagging folds of a ready-made coat, bought from the
pile in an up-country village.

"Well, what can I do for you, sir?" demanded Mern, relieved of
apprehension, seeing his advantage and more coldly curt than usual in
his dealings with men whom he could bully.

"I had this address," faltered Latisan; he pulled from his pocket a
sheet of paper which had been crumpled into a mass and then folded back
into its original creases. "I was thinking--I've been sort of
planning--I thought I'd come around and ask you----" It was one of the
things, this errand, for which he had been trying to summon resolution
while he sat in the stuffy room, glancing up at the gas jet.

Mern jerked away the paper, noting that its letterhead was his own. It
was his epistle to one "Miss Patsy Jones, Adonia," demanding from her
information as to just what she was doing as an operative for the
Vose-Mern agency.

"It's about Miss Jones. I thought I'd step