There came a time--and it came soon--when he had about exhausted his desperate ingenuity at cornering acquaintances and former friends and "sticking them up" for loans of five hundred, a hundred, fifty, twenty-five--Because these vulgar and repulsive facts are not found in the usual records of the men who have dropped and come up again, do not imagine that only the hopeless and never-reappearing failures pass through such experiences. On the contrary, they are part of the common human lot, and few indeed are the men who have not had them--and worse--if they could but be brought to tell the truth. Destiny rarely permits any one of us to go from cradle to grave without doing many a thing shameful and universally condemned. How could it be otherwise under our social system? When Norman was about at the end of all his resources Tetlow called on him--Tetlow, now a partner in the Lockyer firm. He came with an air of stealth. "I don't want anyone to know I'm doing this," said he frankly. "If it got out, I'd be damaged and you'd not profit." Rarely does anyone, however unworthy--and Fred Norman was far from unworthy, as we humans go--rarely does anyone find himself absolutely without a friend. There is a saying that no man ever sunk so low, ever became so vile and squalid in soul and body, but that if he were dying, and the fact were noised throughout the world, some woman somewhere would come--perhaps from a sense of duty, perhaps from love, perhaps for the sake of a moment of happiness long past but never equaled, and so never forgotten--but from whatever motive, she would come. In the same manner, anyone in dire straits can be sure of some friend. There were several others whom Norman had been expecting--men he had saved by his legal ingenuity at turning points in their careers. None of these was so imprudent as uselessly to involve himself. It was Tetlow who came--Tetlow, with whom his accounts were more than balanced, with the balance against him. Tetlow, whom he did not expect. Norman did not welcome him effusively. He said at once: "How is--she?" Tetlow shifted uneasily. "I don't know. She's not with us. I gave her a place there--to get her away from Culver. But she didn't stay long. No doubt she's doing well." "I thought you cared about her," said Norman, who in estimating Tetlow's passion had measured it by his own, had neglected to consider that the desires of most men soon grow short of breath and weary of leg. "Yes--so I did care for her," said Tetlow, in the voice of a man who has been ill but is now well. "But that's all over. Women aren't worth bothering about much. They're largely vanity. The way they soon take a man for granted if he's at all kind to them discourages any but the poorest sort of fool. At least that's my opinion." "Then you don't come from her?" said Norman with complete loss of interest in his caller. "No. I've come--Fred, I hear you're in difficulties."