"Some domestic trouble—a little painful," I stammered, and he saw that I did not wish to speak of it. And the vast loneliness of human beings traversing their orbits on earth struck me as I sat heavily down to my work. What did I know of Visconti—or Visconti of me? For ages I had worked near him and I knew he trusted and had what is called regard for me. Yet the planets in trackless space knew more of each other. I believe he knows that I am a middle-aged bachelor and I know he has a daughter who is the apple of his eye—and he pays the wage by which I live. But what else did we know? He had lost a deeply loved wife and remained a widower. My heart warmed to him in a sudden sympathy. As though reciprocating, he came bustling to my desk a minute later and bending toward me whispered: "Do not forget that your time is your own—if your _demarches_—private business—do not forget!" I thanked him but he waved his pudgy hand in sign of friendly deprecation of formalities. ... com ’e duro calle Lo scendere e il salir per l’altrui scale, lamented Dante. Yes, hard is the path, the going up and down other people’s stairs, when you depend for your livelihood upon them. But Visconti in his manner endeavored to make his "stairs" those of a friend. There was no word from Randolph that morning and my heart grew every moment heavier. I seemed to require no food. I straggled aimlessly during the noon hour through mean streets, from Bleecker Street to Abingdon Square, in a world of listless women and dirty children, a desert, ghostly world, drab and wretched. Shuttling back and forth, all but inanimate, I passed Minot Blackden’s studio, but with sudden horror recoiled from entering. I was driven about like a leaf. I was a shadow in a world of shadows. Towards four o’clock I rose heavily from my desk, determined to drag myself to police headquarters in search of Sergeant Cullum. I expected nothing from him, but, still, he might utter a word of hope. At that moment my telephone rang. It was Randolph! His voice was charged and crackling with excitement and importance. "Will you meet me at Brentano’s, corner Twenty-sixth Street and the Avenue right away?" "Why," I said piteously—"tell me, in God’s name—have you news?—what d’you mean?" A swirl of hope and apprehension swept me like a wave and left me gasping. "Yes, Uncle Ranny," was the chuckling reply. "I have news—she’s—I know where she is—Come right over!" And without giving me a chance to say more, the young devil hung up the receiver. I cursed the boy in my heart for being a boy—for his callousness to another’s suffering.