For the third time that afternoon the young man stood before the window of the post-office to ask the same question and to receive the same answer: "Has any letter come for McDowell Sutro?" "No." This time he persisted, for he could not take no for an answer at that late hour of the day. "Are you sure?" he asked, urgently. "Certain sure," was the answer that came through the window. "Will there be another mail from California to-night?" he inquired, clutching a last hope. "Not to-night," responded the clerk. The young man stood there for a second, staring unconsciously into the window, and not seeing anybody or anything. Then he turned slowly to go. The clerk knew that look on the face of men who asked for letters, and he had a movement of kindness. "Say, young feller!" he called, brusquely. McDowell Sutro faced about instantly, with a swift flash of hope. "If you're expecting money in that letter, maybe it's registered," suggested the clerk. "Ask over there in the corner." "Thank you," the young man answered, gratefully; and he walked to the window in the corner with expectation again lighting his face. But there was no registered letter for McDowell Sutro, and there could none arrive before the next morning. And as the handsome young Californian left the post-office he knew that he had hardly a right even to hope that the letter he was asking for should ever arrive. He stepped out on Fifth Avenue; and though a warm June wind blew balmily up from Washington Square, his heart was chill within him. He shivered as he wondered what he was to do now. He knew no one in New York, and he had not a cent in his pocket. In his youth he had expected to inherit a fortune, and so he learned no trade and studied no profession. He had taught himself how to be idle elegantly; he had never planned how to earn his own living. Perhaps this was the reason why he had failed to find any work to do during the two gliding weeks since he had suddenly been brought face to face with his final ten-dollar bill. He had no more resources than he had friends. His trunk, with the little clothing he owned, was still at the boarding-house he had left ten days before; it was held by the landlady till he paid her what he owed. His modest jewelry had been pawned, bit by bit. It was now about seven in the evening, and he had had no food since the coffee and cakes taken perhaps twelve hours earlier, and bought with the last dime left him after he had paid for his night's lodging. Having walked all day, he was weary and hungry, and he had no idea how he could get a roof over his head once again or fill his stomach once more. He had heard of men and women starving to death in the streets of New York, and he found himself inquiring if that were to be his fate.