The earth-story of Dolores Trent, free in version and filled in from the super-supply of Satanic intelligence, ensues. CHAPTER III Close to five o’clock the decrepit vehicle which, with a dingy hearse, had formed the funeral cortège of Trevor Trent, creaked to a stop. The entrance to the Heartsease Apartments gaped wide, just as it had gaped a few hours earlier when the remains of the wastrel had passed through for the last time. The relic of a Jehu, in crinkled topper and faded blue livery sans buttons, lowered rheumatically from his seat on the box. Adjusting his soiled dickey, mainstay of a celluloid collar and green tie, he threw open the door with what might have been taken for extra ceremony, had he not verbally urged his passengers to hurry lest he miss the hot free-lunch which, with the weak prohibition-time “suds” that washed it down, was the most pleasureable event of his day. Those who alighted stood a moment in regretful silence--two typical Harlem matrons, one with a child in arms, both with offspring attached like lead weights to their skirts. Between them was the girl whom they were seeing to-day, through the goggles of sensation, in the stellar rôle of chief mourner. “Pore thing--pore young thing!” Their tears, more or less sincere, vied with those of the dripping heavens, although not tears for Trevor Trent. Indeed, they who had known his life for the past seventeen years had no apologies, even to the angels, for omitting to weep over his demise. Their toil-dulled compassion went out in this loneliest moment that succeeds a death to the orphaned daughter who, hitherto, had been a detached unit in their congested midst. A substantial escort, they ushered her up the steps, unheeding the querulous welcome of the young hopefuls left at home. “Was it a long, good, joggly ride, Ma?” “You mighta tooken us along.” “Can _I_ go next time anybody dies? ’Tain’t fair the baby gets all the fun.” Inside the door, the manner that belonged to an occasion was unceremoniously doffed. Sympathy along this particular block of the East One-Hundreds never interfered with life’s practicalities. Dolores Trent received no invitations to sup with her neighbors--expected none, since any superfluous scraps could be served very well for breakfast. Uneasy in the emptiness of the three rooms which for so long had represented home to her, she settled at the oak desk beside the window with intent of searching the close-printed want columns of an evening paper. But at first she could not see to read.