The drowsiness is again stealing upon him. He still sees the wretched face before him and is studying it; but always between them are those other faces--the face of Eva Delorme and of Evelin March--and the piteous, frightened look that rests now upon one, now upon the other,--and now the two are melting--melting into one, like the blending outlines of a dissolving view--and both fade out into the little white globe with its whirling black words, that the hum of the train flying through the night keeps repeating over, and over, and over,--"Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes." VII. The sky was beginning to get gray with morning when the night express, more than a hundred and fifty miles from its starting point, rushed into a little station and halted a moment for water, panting and fretting to be on its way. A figure stepped from it to the platform, staggering a little as from the motion of the train. It was a young man. His eyes were bloodshot, his face stained with the grime of travel. His soft felt hat and his short, velvet coat were covered with cinders and dust. One would hardly have recognized the artist, Julian Goetze. The station agent stood a few feet away with a lantern. He looked up somewhat astonished as this odd figure approached him. "Some drunken showman," he thought. The man came closer, as if to speak to him. "How far back to Saint Louis?" he asked, anxiously. "One hundred and fifty-three miles." "When can I get a train?" "At eleven-thirty, if it's on time." "Is it usually on time?" "Hardly ever; four hours late yesterday." "Good God! Is there no other train?" "There's a cattle train lying up there on the switch now. Pulls out soon as this one leaves." "And what time will that reach Saint Louis?" "No telling, depends upon what luck it has; possibly by four or five o'clock." The artist did not wait to hear more. Anything was better than remaining here on an uncertainty. He sped away up the track to where lay the long line of waiting cars. He had been awakened by the stopping of the train, and a realization of affairs had flashed over him like lightning. He was far away from Saint Louis, and at six o'clock that night he had an appointment with Eva Delorme. The effects of his self-abasement and the strong liquor had worn away. The fever and the delirium of last night were as a bad dream. He would hasten back to Eva. He had sinned--fallen almost to the lowest depth--but it was over now. He would see Evelin March no more. If Eva accepted him they would go away at once. Oh, if kind Providence would but help him to reach the appointment in time! The conductor whom he asked, noting his anxiety, assured him that it was quite probable they would reach the city by five o'clock.