“Say th' word, however, an' I can put th' damper on. I can fix it so Billy Van Flange can't gamble nor cash checks in Barclay Street. They'll throw him out th' minute he sticks his nut inside the door. But I'll put you wise to it, Madam: If I do, inside of ninety days you'll fish him out o' th' river; you will, as sure as I'm a foot high!” The face of the Widow Van Flange was pale as paper now, and her bosom rose and fell with new terrors for her son. The words of Gothecore seemed prophetic of the passing of the last Van Flange. “Madam,” said Gothecore, following a pause, “I've put it up to you. Give me your orders. Say th' word, an' I'll have th' screws on that Barclay Street joint as fast as I can get back to my station-house.” “But if we keep him from going there,” said the Widow Van Flange, with a sort of hectic eagerness, “he'll find another place, won't he?” There was a curious look in the eyes of the Widow Van Flange. Her hand was pressed upon her bosom as if to smother a pang; her handkerchief went constantly to her lips. “He would seek worse resorts?” “It's a cinch, Madam!” “And he'd be murdered?” “Madam, it's apples to ashes!” The eyes of the Widow Van Flange seemed to light up with an unearthly sparkle, while a flush crept out in her cheek. I was gazing upon these signs with wonder regarding them as things sinister, threatening ill. Suddenly, she stood on her feet; and then she tottered in a blind, stifled way toward the window as though feeling for light and air. The next moment, the red blood came trickling from her mouth; she fell forward and I caught her in my arms. “It's a hemorrhage!” said Gothecore. The awe of death lay upon the man, and his coarse voice was stricken to a whisper. “Now Heaven have my soul!” murmured the dying woman. Then: “My son! oh, my son!” There came another crimson cataract, and the Widow Van Flange was dead. “This is your work!” said I, turning fiercely to Gothecore. “Or is it yours?” cries he. The words went over my soul like the teeth of a harrow. Was it my work? “No, Chief!” continued Gothecore, more calmly, and as though in answer to both himself and me, “it's the work of neither of us. You think that what I said killed her. That may be as it may. Every word, however, was true. I but handed her th' straight goods.” The Widow Van Flange was dead; and the thought of her son was in her heart and on her lips as her soul passed. And the son, bleared and drunken, gambled on in the Barclay Street den, untouched. The counters did not shake in his hand, nor did the blood run chill in his veins, as he continued to stake her fortune and his own in sottish ignorance. One morning, when the first snow of winter was beating in gusty swirls against the panes, Morton walked in upon me. I had not seen that middle-aged fop since the day when I laid out my social hopes and fears for Blossom. It being broad September at the time, Morton had pointed out how nothing might be done before the snows.