Haworth began at once to explain that he’d just perfected a mechanical novelty regarding which he would like to interest him. He had built, in the basement of the house, a full-sized working model—in fact, the machine itself—for in the exploitation, or you might say output, of the thing, lay the large money-making possibilities. He was going on glibly enough with this sort of talk—for he was feverishly excited and spoke rapidly—when he suddenly and unexpectedly came up against the insurmountable obstacle. At the time he did not know what it was;—he was only aware that something had stopped him dead. There was a silence for a full minute. Then, his mind a sickening blank, he began to stammer out a few disconnected words, after which he was silent again and sat staring. Mr. Hollister, who’d been more than eager to hear what Haworth had in the way of an invention, supposed the young man had been taken suddenly ill (he certainly looked it) and hastened to get him a drink. But it was all over. The young fellow couldn’t go on. And finally, in a blind sort of way, he got up from his chair and walked dizzily out of the office. The elder man followed to the elevator, quite solicitous; asking if there wasn’t something he could do, and making efforts to learn what the trouble was. But Haworth shook his head weakly, the elevator door clanged, and he dropped silently out of sight. As he came out at the street entrance of the building he moved along the wall a short distance and stood there, his eyes strained wide open. The blow was so sudden and smashing that he was dazed, not realizing what had struck him. He’d been there for hardly more than a minute when the traffic policeman from the Tremont corner came hurrying along. A lady had reported that something was the matter with a man leaning against a building a little way up Beacon. The moment he saw Haworth he ran across the street to him and asked what was wrong. The young man shook his head a little, but was unable to speak. “Live here in Boston?” the officer inquired. “Out—Roxbury.” “What’s the street?” “Torrington.” “Some ways. I’ll send a taxi.” “No, please don’t!” Haworth was suddenly emphatic. “I can get home all right!” Saying which, he turned and walked unsteadily up the street. * * * * * He found himself awhile later, without knowing how he got there, seated on the bench in the Public Garden where he and Edith had been—ages ago—ages ago. He was trying to remember what he’d said to Mr. Hollister, with the vague idea of finding out what it was that had stopped him in the midst of the interview.