The hum of the city was far below him, and at this hour it was much lessened. The house was also very still. No sound was to be heard but the monotonous motion of the sewing machine worked by the seamstress in the next room. In this silence and solitude, thought overwhelmed him. Imagination conjured up the picture of Roma in her island prison, in the power of William Hanson. He could not bear this. He started up with a suppressed cry, and ran downstairs and into the crowded streets. He pushed through the crowd to get at freer space and fresher air, and went on toward the piers. He walked rapidly up and down one of the most deserted-looking, to fatigue himself into the need of rest and the possibility of sleep. He walked for hours, until he began to feel weary; then he slackened his pace, but still walked and walked, being resolved to so exhaust his physical powers that his mental faculties might find rest in unconsciousness. He walked up and down until from very prostration he had to stop and sit down on a pile of planks left lying there. He had been sitting there some time, felt somewhat rested, and able to return to his lodgings, and was about to rise and retrace his steps, when his attention was attracted by the figure of a man coming toward him. The man was of low stature, slight and slim, and would have looked like a boy but for his stooping shoulders and long beard. He came on, tottering like an inebriate. Something in his form and manner compelled Harcourt to look at him. He came on, tottering from right to left, passed Harcourt without seeing him, and went on toward the end of the pier. Harcourt, moved by some inspiration he could not understand, arose and followed him silently, closely. When the stranger reached the end of the pier, where the water was deep, he paused, looked down profoundly, much as Harcourt himself had looked into the depth of Chesapeake Bay two nights before. “There is peace there,” the stranger murmured, using the very words that Harcourt had used under a recent similar temptation. And then he threw up his arms for the fatal leap. But Harcourt’s swift arms were cast around him and held him back. The would-be suicide struggled hard to release himself, but he was weak, very weak, and Harcourt, inspired by the sudden joy of saving him, held him fast. “Let me go! Who are you that would save a tortured and maddened wretch from rest and peace?” demanded the stranger, still struggling, though now very feebly, for his poor strength was failing, and he seemed more like fainting than resisting. “Who are you? Who are you, I say?”