For a moment, while he was being lifted into the ambulance, the victim's face was visible. A loud cry was heard in the crowd. It came from a ragged, wild-looking man, whose unkempt beard made him look much older than I afterward found him to be. As the ambulance hurried off, he ran after it, shouting: “'I must see that man! Stop! I must ask him something!' “But he tripped upon a horse-car track, and when he had staggered to his feet, the ambulance was out of sight. “I ran into the hotel and asked the clerk about the lazaretto patient. He was a young European--an Englishman--they thought, who had arrived from the East two days ago, and whose condition had just been discovered. “Coming out, I went to the tramp who had cried out at the sight of the ill man. I found him seated on the curbstone, weeping like a child. I asked him why he wished to see the smallpox victim, and said that I could get him admission to the lazaretto, if he would tell me what he knew, and wouldn't let any other reporter have the story. “He jumped up eagerly. “'It's this,' he said. 'That man ran away with my wife, and I've hunted them over sea and land. This is the first sight I've had of him.' “'Then,' I said, 'if you mean to harm him, I'm afraid I can't bring you to him.' “'Him!' said the ragged man, disdainfully. 'I don't want to hurt him. I only want to find out where she is. I swear I wouldn't harm either of them.' “I accompanied him to the city physician, with whom he had a long talk. That official finally promised to take him to the lazaretto. The doctor led the man to the side of the iron bed where the smallpox patient lay. The latter started like a frightened child at sight of his pursuer. “'Remember,' said the doctor to the sick man, 'you have scarcely a chance for life. You would do well to tell the truth.' “'Only tell me where she is,' pleaded the husband, 'and I'll forgive you all.' “The sick man gasped: “'I left her in Philadelphia--at the station. She had smallpox. It was from her I got it. I was a coward--a cur. I left her to save myself. The money I had brought from home was nearly all gone. Ask her to forgive me.' “He was dead that evening. The husband was then upon an east-bound freight-train. The newspaper telegraphed to Philadelphia, but nothing could be found out about the woman. I've often wondered what became of the man.” The loud hubbub of conversation,--nearly all in German,--the shouts of the waiters, the noise of their footfalls upon the stone floor, the sound of mugs being placed upon tables and of Max draining his “stein” of beer, bridged the hiatus between the ending of Max's narrative and the beginning of my own: “Your story reminds me of one to which the city editor assigned me on one of my 'late nights.' I took a cab and went to the station-house. The case had been reported by a policeman at Ninth and Locust Streets, who had called for a patrol-wagon. From him I got the story. He had seen the thing happen.