No! no! Better to enter the door where the white arm reached out for the message of blackness. Better to go up and down the stairs searching for David, listening for Davy's organ--better to fling one's self on the couch, abandoning all to the tempest of regret and disappointment; to cry out to David; to apostrophize the unseen; to fall into the hideous abyss of hopelessness; to see once again the north star of religion; to call upon God for help; to doze; to awaken to the abominations of the reality; to remember the escape from perdition; to hasten to the duties of the day! So goes the night. So comes the morning. She who would not live the evening before is terrified now for fear of death ere her last great labor shall be done. She calls her carriage. She rides but a few squares. Every block in that noble structure represents a pang in her heart. Some of those great stones below must have been heavier than these sobs she now feels. "Oh, David! David! Every iron beam; every copestone, every coigne of vantage, every oriel window in this honorable edifice is for you! Every element has cost an agony in her who weeps for you." The widow gazes far aloft. It has been promised for this date, and it is done. Something of the old look of pride comes to the calm and beautiful face which the architect and the workmen have always seen. The vari-colored slate shingles are going on the roof. Her eye returns in satisfaction to the glittering black granite letters over the portal. She reads: THE DAVID LOCKWIN ANNEX [Illustration: Her eye returns in satisfaction to the glittering black granite letters over the portal.] "A magnificent hospital," says an approving press, "the very dream of an intelligent philanthropy." BOOK III ROBERT CHALMERS CHAPTER I A DIFFICULT PROBLEM David Lockwin is not dead. Look into his heart and see what was there while he sat beside Corkey on the lounge in the forecabin of the Africa. The time has come for momentous action. It is settled that at the other end of this journey David Lockwin shall cease to exist. Now, how to do it. He may commit suicide. He may disappear. In furtherance of the latter plan there awaits the draft of Robert Chalmers, who bears letters from David Lockwin, the sum of $75,000. This deposit is in the Coal and Oil Trust Company's institution at New York. The amount is half of Lockwin's estate. Esther shall have the rest. Serious matters are these, for a man to consider, who sits stretched out on a seat, one ankle over the other, his hands deep in pocket, his chin far down on his chest; and Corkey appealing in his dumb, yet eloquent way, for a share of the spoils of office. This life of David Lockwin, the people's idol, is an unendurable fiasco. David Lockwin is disconsolate. Davy is no more. David Lockwin is sick and weak. Whether he be sane or daft, he scarcely knows, and he cares not at all. He recoils from politics.