a low tone, "to die with a
face like that looking into his."

There was a smile on the death-white lips of the little clerk.

MASTER OF FALLEN YEARS[17]

By VINCENT O'SULLIVAN

(From _The Smart Set_)

Several years ago, I was intimately acquainted with a young man named
Augustus Barber. He was employed in a paper-box manufacturer's business
in the city of London. I never heard what his father was. His mother was
a widow and lived, I think, at Godalming; but of this I am not sure. It
is odd enough that I should have forgotten where she lived, for my
friend was always talking about her. Sometimes he seemed immensely fond
of her; at other times almost to hate her; but whichever it was, he
never left her long out of his conversation. I believe the reason I
forget is that he talked so much about her that I failed at last to pay
attention to what he said.

He was a stocky young man, with light-coloured hair and a pale, rather
blotchy complexion. There was nothing at all extraordinary about him on
either the material or spiritual side. He had rather a weakness for
gaudy ties and socks and jewelry. His manners were a little boisterous;
his conversation, altogether personal. He had received some training at
a commercial school. He read little else than the newspapers. The only
book I ever knew him to read was a novel of Stevenson's, which he said
was "too hot for blisters."

Where, then, in this very commonplace young man, were hidden the
elements of the extraordinary actions and happenings I am about to
relate? Various theories offer; it is hard to decide. Doctors,
psychologists whom I have consulted, have given different opinions; but
upon one point they have all agreed--that I am not able to supply
enough information about his ancestry. And, in fact, I know hardly
anything about that.

This is not, either, because he was uncommunicative. As I say, he used
to talk a lot about his mother. But he did not really inspire enough
interest for anybody to take an interest in his affairs. He was there;
he was a pleasant enough fellow; but when he had gone you were finished
with him till the next time. If he did not look you up, it would never
occur to you to go and see him. And as to what became of him when he was
out of sight, or how he lived--all that, somehow, never troubled our
heads.

What illustrates this is that when he had a severe illness a few years
after I came to know him, so little impression did it ma