company, to his dying day, I’ll ask him in the guileless affectionate way that used to gravel him so when I inquired how his unborn law business was coming along, ’Got on her track yet—­hey, Pudd’nhead?’” He wanted to laugh, but that would not have answered; there were people about, and he was mourning for his uncle.  He made up his mind that it would be good entertainment to look in on Wilson that night and watch him worry over his barren law case and goad him with an exasperating word or two of sympathy and commiseration now and then.

Wilson wanted no supper, he had no appetite.  He got out all the fingerprints of girls and women in his collection of records and pored gloomily over them an hour or more, trying to convince himself that that troublesome girl’s marks were there somewhere and had been overlooked.  But it was not so.  He drew back his chair, clasped his hands over his head, and gave himself up to dull and arid musings.

Tom Driscoll dropped in, an hour after dark, and said with a pleasant laugh as he took a seat: 

“Hello, we’ve gone back to the amusements of our days of neglect and obscurity for consolation, have we?” and he took up one of the glass strips and held it against the light to inspect it.  “Come, cheer up, old man; there’s no use in losing your grip and going back to this child’s play merely because this big sunspot is drifting across your shiny new disk.  It’ll pass, and you’ll be all right again”—­and he laid the glass down.  “Did you think you could win always?”

“Oh, no,” said Wilson, with a sigh, “I didn’t expect that, but I can’t believe Luigi killed your uncle, and I feel very sorry for him.  It makes me blue.  And you would feel as I do, Tom, if you were not prejudiced against those young fellows.”

“I don’t know about that,” and Tom’s countenance darkened, for his memory reverted to his kicking.  “I owe them no good will, considering the brunet one’s treatment of me that night.  Prejudice or no prejudice, Pudd’nhead, I don’t like them, and when they get their deserts you’re not going to find me sitting on the mourner’s bench.”

He took up another strip of glass, and exclaimed: 

“Why, here’s old Roxy’s label!  Are you going to ornament the royal palaces with nigger paw marks, too?  By the date here, I was seven months old when this was done, and she was nursing me and her little nigger cub.  There’s a line straight across her thumbprint.  How comes that?” and Tom held out the piece of glass to Wilson.

“That is common,” said the bored man, wearily.  “Scar of a cut or a scratch, usually”—­and he took the strip of glass indifferently, and raised it toward the lamp.

All the blood sank suddenly out of his face; his hand quaked, and he gazed at the polished surface before him with the glassy stare of a corpse.

“Great heavens, what’s the matter with you, Wilson?  Are you going to faint?”

Tom sprang for a glass of water and offered it, but Wilson shrank shuddering from him and said: