"Well, Mr. Sherrod, I don't know you, nor do I know where Glenville is, but I will say this much to you: a man who can draw such pictures as these is entitled to consideration anywhere. It kind o' paralyzes you, eh? You may rest assured that I am sincere, because we don't praise a man's work unless it is deserving. What are you doing up here? Looking for work?" "I want to earn enough at something to give me a start, that's all. Do you really think I'll do, Mr. Brush?" His eyes were actually snapping with excitement. "You can be made to do. It's in you. Try your hand at newspaper illustrating and then sail in for magazine work, etching, paintings--thunder, you can do it, if you have the nerve to stick to it!" "But how am I to get work on a paper?" "There are twenty-five applicants ahead of you here, and we are to lose a man next month--Mr. Kirby, who goes to New York. I'll see that you get his place. In the mean time, you'll have to wait until the first of the month, and, if you like, you may hang around the office and go out with the fellows on some of their assignments, just for practice. You won't get much of a salary to begin with, but you'll work up. I'm darn glad you came here first." "How do you know I came here first?" "Because you wouldn't have got away from another paper if you'd gone there. Have you any friends in the city?" "No, sir--yes, I did meet a gentleman at the depot last night. I'm to call on him next Friday. Do you know him?" Sherrod gave him Christopher Barlow's card. The artist glanced at it, and, without a word, picked up a photograph from his desk. "This the man?" "Why, yes--isn't it funny you'd have it?" "And here is his daughter." This time he displayed the picture of a beautiful girl. "And his wife, too." Jud held the three portraits in his hand, wondering how they came to be in the artist's possession. "Mrs. Barlow committed suicide this morning." "Good heaven! You don't mean it. And has Mr. Barlow come home?" "That's the trouble, my boy. You'll have a good deal to learn in Chicago, and you can't trust very much of anybody. You see, old man Barlow, who has been looked upon as the soul of honor, skipped town last night with a hundred thousand dollars belonging to depositors, and he is now where the detectives can't find him." Jud was staggered. That kindly old gentleman a thief! The first man to give him a gentle word in the great city a fleeing criminal! He felt a cold perspiration start on his forehead. What manner of world was this? His first day in Chicago ended with the long letter he wrote to Justine, an epistle teeming with enthusiasm and joy, brimming over with descriptions and experiences, not least of which was the story of Christopher Barlow. CHAPTER IX. THE ENCOUNTER WITH CRAWLEY.