And so when Paula whispered to herself, “I did not dare to tell him; I did not dare to tell any one, but—” she thought of those terrible words, “Die? It might be better, perhaps, that you should!” and then remembered the ghastly look of immeasurable horror with which a few hours later, he staggered away from that awful burden, whose rigid lines would never again melt into mocking curves, and to whom the morning’s wide soaring hopes, high reaching ambitions and boundless luxuries were now no more than the shadows of a vanished world; life, love, longing, with all their demands, having dwindled to a noisome rest between four close planks, with darkness for its present portion and beyond—what? XXI. DEPARTURE. “Forever and forever, farewell Cassius. If we do meet again, why we shall smile; If not, why then, this parting was well made.” —JULIUS CÆSAR. Samuel had received his orders to admit Mr. Bertram Sylvester to his uncle’s room, at whatever hour of the day or night he chose to make his appearance. But evening wore away and finally the night, before his well-known face was seen at the door. Proceeding at once to the apartment occupied by Mr. Sylvester, he anxiously knocked. The door was opened immediately. “Ah, Bertram, I have been expecting you all night.” And from the haggard appearance of both men, it was evident that neither of them had slept. “I have sat down but twice since I left you, and then only in conveyances. I have been obliged to go to Brooklyn, to—” “But you have found him?” “Yes, I found him.” His uncle glanced inquiringly at his hands; they were empty. “I shall have to sit down,” said Bertram; his brow was very gloomy, his words came hesitatingly. “I had rather have knocked my head against the wall, than have disappointed you,” he murmured after a moment’s pause. “But when I did find him, it was too late.” “Too late!” The tone in which this simple phrase was uttered was indescribable. Bertram slowly nodded his head. “He had already disposed of all the papers, and favorably,” he said. “But—” “And not only that,” pursued Bertram. “He had issued orders by telegraph, that it was impossible to countermand. It was at the Forty Second Street depôt I found him at last. He was just on the point of starting for the west.” “And has he gone?” “Yes sir.” Mr. Sylvester walked slowly to the window. It was raining drearily without, but he did not notice the falling drops or raise his eyes to the leaden skies. “Did you meet any one?” he asked at length. “Any one that you know, I mean, or who knows you?” “No one but Mr. Stuyvesant.” “Mr. Stuyvesant!”