He drew near to the young man and the girl, and he observed them closely. It was no new incident in the common life. But before the formula he carried in his pocket the scene had a peculiar interest. It was scheduled in his plan to cease. He marked the power, the stimulus, the resistless charm of this thing Neinsoul had called the love lure. The hardest creature about his task paused and stood up smiling, as though the incident released within him some memory or some hope. Arnbush walked about, thrusting through the group of persons, to keep the two within the sweep of his eye. He would miss no detail. And when they passed out of his sight and hearing he stood for some time looking at the elevator as at the abandoned spot of some transfiguration. Then he filled his big lungs and shrugged his shoulders. Well, there would be no more of this thing! And he went in to breakfast. The old waiter was slow this morning and, Arnbush thought, inattentive. He spoke to him sharply. The man was obsequious and apologetic. His wife was ill; he was in acute distress. They had been long together, and happy; dependent on each other; the twain one flesh, as the mystic words expressed it.... If she should die! Arnbush plunged his hand into his pocket, drew out his purse and gave the man a bill. It was in three figures. But the distiller was accustomed to add substance to his sympathy—not words only, although the words were from the heart. “There, there, Henry! She’ll pull through.” And he patted the old man on the shoulder. This was impulse. Upon reflection he moved a little in the chair. The memory of Neinsoul watching as from a window occurred to him. He drank a little coffee and got up. But he could find no cigar to suit him. He tried a handful and threw them down. He wandered awhile about the corridors and finally went out. He would walk down to Stetman’s office. It was early, but the lawyer was accustomed to come in early, in order to be undisturbed at his morning’s work. The air had come in from the sea; it was fresh and vital, and as the man walked he began to recover some measure of his poise. Several blocks down Fifth Avenue, he stopped. A procession of small children in some religious ceremony was coming up on the other side. He waited until they were opposite; then he crossed. He walked slowly along the line, paused, and, returning, passed it again. He looked with a profound, a consuming, an eager interest at each child. He watched the procession disappear, took a step or two, and then, hurrying to the curb, began to gesticulate wildly with his stick. A taxicab answered; he plunged in and shouted an address. Stetman was among his law books when his client entered. He rose from his stooped posture. “I was working on your matter,” he said. Arnbush came forward, shouting from the threshold: “Well! You don’t have to work on it no longer. I got it. Do you see that, Stetman? Do you see what’s on that paper?”