“That isn’t it, exactly, though I haven’t anything here----” “Have you had breakfast?” “N-no.” “Come in with me and we’ll talk. I have a half-hour to spare.” Bellair heard his voice and wondered at the coldness of it. He remembered afterward the covered billiard-tables at the far end of the hall and the dimness of the hall’s length, as he led the way. His own custom was a pot of coffee and a bit of toast, but the other’s possible need of food had a singular authority over him, so he made out that this was one of the main feeding features of his day.... But the other was intent upon certain things beside food. He had been unlucky. Everything that he had tried in the year of New York had failed him somehow--little ventures, positions lost--and always some one was to blame, not this one who spoke and had suffered so. Bellair hearkened for one note that would confine itself to the unfinished mouth and the unstable character; one note that would suggest the possibility of a clue that the series of failures lay in his own shortcomings of strength and quality, but the boy had not this suggestion in his heart. “Are you married?” Bellair asked. “No.” There was an instant’s lull, and then was turned off another story of misfortune: “... I didn’t want to marry her. I got her in trouble down in New Zealand. Her father wanted me to marry her--was willing to pay for it--but a fellow can’t take a chance like that. We came up together with the kid to New York, but everything broke bad for me----” The voice went on, but Bellair lost his face. There was a greenish-yellow light between their faces, at least, for Bellair’s eyes, and the floor seemed shaken with heavy machinery. Bellair knew the burn of hate, and the thirst to kill--and then he was all uncentred, like a man badly wounded. He arose. “... The fact is, I don’t think she was quite _right_. None of them are----” “I won’t be able to hear any more of that just now,” Bellair said slowly. “I’m leaving this hotel to-day for other quarters. But to-morrow morning at ten, I shall be here and listen to what you want. Perhaps I can set you straight a bit--for the present, anyway. And this--is so you won’t miss any meals in the meantime----” Bellair handed him money. “Please excuse me,” he added. “And finish your breakfast----” He called the waiter and signed the card. Then he turned as if to look around the room. He located the door by which they had entered, drew his hands strangely across his eyes. Effusive gratefulness was seeking his ears from the young man in the chair. Bellair lifted his hand as if to cut off the voice, and then started for the door, his step hastening. 8