Mr. Heatherbloom, armed with his book, sought a different part of the store—–­ a small reception-room, where customers of both sexes were at liberty to read, write, or indulge in mental rest-cure, after bargain purchases.  There he perused hurriedly, and by snatches, the volume; there was plenty of fire and plenty of sword in it; human passions bubbled and seethed.  Suddenly he sat up straight and a suppressed exclamation fell from his lips; he closed the book sharply.

One or two old ladies looked at him but he did not see them.  His vision, clairvoyant-like, seemed to have lifted, to traverse broad seas, limitless steppes.  His hands opened and closed, as if striving to reach and clutch something beyond flame of battle, scenes of rapine.

He got up dizzily.  As he stepped once more into the street, the shadows had lengthened; twilight was falling.  He stopped at a pawnbroker’s, purchased a revolver and cartridges.  He might need the weapon now more than ever.  And money—­he needed far more of that than he had.  He spread in his palm the little wad of greenbacks he took from his pocket; counted them and a few silver pieces.  Then seeking a ticket office, he made a few casual inquiries; a shadow rested on his countenance as he emerged from the place.

Next door to it a pile of gold pieces in a bank window shone mockingly before his eyes.  So near—­with only the plate-glass between him and the bright discs!  Mechanically he began to count them, but suddenly turned from that profitless occupation and stood with his back to the window.

What availed resolution without dollars?  His purpose might be strong, but poverty, a Brobdingnagian giant, laid its hand on his shoulder, crushing him down, holding him there, impotent, until the stocky man and his cohorts of the private detective office should come over and get him—­to send him to the little island he had thought of when crossing the bridge to Brooklyn!

He fell back into a doorway.  More money!—­he must get it; must!  He folded his arms tight over his breast.  To think that this should be his one great, crying need—­his!

Above, he heard footsteps descending the stairway at the foot of which he stood; Mr. Heatherbloom slipped out of the passage to the sidewalk and moved on.  Chance took him back the way he had come; he had no choice of direction.  Now he looked once more at the window of the pawnbroker, where he had stopped a short time before.  He regarded the unredeemed pledges; seal-rings, watches, flutes, old violins; what not?  If he only had something left; but all had gone—­long ago.

All?  He started slightly; considered; walked on.  But he turned around, hesitatingly, and came slowly back.  As he approached the door, his step grew more resolute.  He walked briskly in.  Without giving the proprietor time to come to the front of the shop, Mr. Heatherbloom moved at once to the back where the other sat behind his dusty glass cases.