Reporters are as thick as peas, and he would avoid them if possible, not wanting to figure in a sensation. Wycherley is so retiring in his disposition, so modest withal, that any such notoriety might embarrass him exceedingly. “Where have I seen that woman before? Don’t ever recollect meeting her in the Hotel des Vagabonde, now, alas! no more; and yet her face seems so familiar to me. Give it up. Where now, my dear boy? The clock strikes four. Daylight will be along--even now I see it creeping up over the lake. To pass the time until then--ah! here’s a bootblack’s chair. Quite an idea. I’ll keep it warm until it’s time for breakfast,” saying which he sits down and dozes. The great city is waking up. As day comes wagons rumble by and working people with buckets in hand swing past to their labors. Soon the shrill cry of the newsboy is heard in the land. “Tribune--Times--Inter-Ocean!” Wycherley sinks a hand in his pocket, and after a thorough and systematic search in order that he may corner all fugitive pieces, he draws out sundry nickels and coppers, which, upon being marshaled upon the palm of his hand, he counts. “Twenty cents, sum total; not a fortune, it’s true, but better than I’ve known many a time. Let’s see how I’ll divide it: five for a paper, ten for breakfast, and the last nickel brings a cigar. There’s luxury for you; a prince could have no more. Hi! boy, come here.” In another minute the paper has changed hands. “Now to feed the inner man, who clamors for attention. Over a cup of coffee and some rolls in a beanery near by, I’ll read my fortune. What a delicious state of uncertainty--it’s heads or tails whether I win or lose a million. Then I enjoy all the sensations of the greatest plunger and never risk a dollar. I must copyright my scheme. Hello! what’s this?” He has come upon a little girl crying--a child who belongs in the poorer walks of life, for her clothes are scanty, and her face thin. She sobs as though her heart would break. “Come, come, what is the matter, my child?” he asks, touched by her despair. “I can’t find it, and it was all granny had.” “What have you lost, then?” “She sent me out last night to buy something to eat, and I fell down and lost the money. I came early this morning to look, but I can’t find it. She won’t have any breakfast, poor old granny. I’ve cried nearly all night, but she told me never to mind, that God would find it for me in the morning, but I guess he forgot.” Indeed, her swollen eyes give evidence that what she says is true. Wycherley makes a grimace, but sturdily puts his hand in his pocket. “How much was it, my dear?” “Only fifteen cents, sir, but it was all granny had, and she won’t get any more till to-morrow.” “A mere trifle, my child. There you are. Don’t mind saying thanks, but be very, very careful not to drop any.” Her looks are eloquent enough as she goes skipping along toward the grocery. Wycherley watches her and then chuckles.