Once more it was hard to believe that there was a difference between this day and other days. It would have been so natural to go to the gym for a plunge or a turn with the foils, and then home to supper. He discussed with himself the possibility of a last night with the family, recoiling only from the fact that it was precisely there that they would look for him. Much reading of criminal annals had printed that detail on his brain—the poor wretch torn from the warm shelter of his home, with his wife’s arms round him and the baby sleeping in the cradle. There was no wife or baby in this case; but to have the thing happen to himself, with his mother and the girls vainly trying to stay the course of the law, would be worse than going to the chair. He was in the uptown subway, with no outward difference between himself and the scores of other young men scanning the evening papers. Because he didn’t know what else to do, he got out at Chambers Street. He got out at Chambers Street because there was a ferry there which would take him over to New Jersey. He went over to New Jersey because it was his habit at this hour of the day, and to follow his habit somehow preserved his sanity. To be on the same side of the river as his home was a faint, futile consolation. And while on the ferryboat a new idea came to him. In the Erie station he should find a telephone booth from which he could ring up his mother and inform her that he was not to be home that night. Though it would do no good in the end, it would at least save her from immediate alarm. Flynn and Jackman were unknown by face to the family, and if they rang at the door in search of him they would probably not tell their tale. Before he reached the other side he had concocted a story of which his only fear was as to his ability to tell it on the wire without breaking down. It was a bit of good luck to be answered by Gladys, whom he could "bluff" more easily than the rest of them. "Hello, Gladys! This is Ted. Tell ma I’m in Paterson and shall not get home to-night or to-morrow night." He could hear Gladys calling into the interior of the house: "Well, _what_ do you know about that? Ted’s at Paterson and not coming home to-night or to-morrow night." Into the receiver she said, "But, Ted, what’ll they say at the bank?" "I may not go back to the bank. This is a new job. You remember the fellow I was working for on the side? Well, he’s put me into this, and perhaps I’m going to make money." "Oh, Ted," Gladys called, delightedly, "how many plunks?" "It—it isn’t a salary," he stammered. "I—I may be in the firm. To-morrow I may have to go to Philadelphia. Tell ma not to worry—and not to miss me. I’ll try to call up from Philadelphia, but if I can’t—Well, anyhow, give my love to ma and everybody, and if I’m not home the day after to-morrow, don’t think anything about it."