CHAPTER XIV. WAVES OF MEMORY. When Laurier and Noel had both been taken away, the man whose bicycle had been the cause of their calamity stood alone among the curious onlookers gazing somewhat ruefully at the ruin of his wheel. He was a fair-haired, fine-looking gentleman approaching middle age, and his blue eyes had in them a grave, sad expression, as of one who had looked on the sadder side of life. To one and another he put the question: “Who were those two young men?” No one could give him any satisfaction, and he was turning away, leaving the broken wheel to its fate when a reporter approached the scene, observing: “I should like to get your name, sir, for my report of this accident for my evening paper.” “Ah!--say John Smith,” the stranger returned impatiently, walking quickly away from his interlocutor and disappearing down a side street. He stopped presently in a café for a glass of wine to settle his shaken nerves. He could not get out of his mind the handsome, unconscious face of Laurier as it lay upturned to the winter sunlight after the shocking accident. “I would give all I own if it had not happened,” he thought sorrowfully; “although I know I am not to blame, for he dashed into me full tilt as we turned the corner; still, I feel in a way responsible, and I shall go to-morrow to Bellevue to inquire about his case, and to lend any financial aid required. But that will scarcely be necessary, I suppose, as both the young fellows were most expensively dressed as if for some elegant social function--perhaps a noon reception or wedding. The mysterious part of the affair is, what were they doing sprinting along the streets in that garb, and pursued by a policeman?” He finished his wine, tipped the obsequious waiter, took a cigar, and strolled into the reading room to smoke. As the blue wreaths of smoke curled over his fair head thrown carelessly back, exposing the clear-cut, spirited features, his thoughts ran thus: “What an unlucky devil I am, anyway! If the Fates had had any mercy, they would have stretched me dead on the sidewalk instead of that handsome youth who doubtless had much in life to live for--everything, perhaps, that I have not--youth, love, happiness, home, while I am a lonely wanderer on the face of the earth. To her, false heart, I owe it all! Can I ever forgive her heartless desertion?” A heavy frown came between his brows as he continued: