Martin rode down town on an electric car, and as he watched the houses and cross-streets slipping by he was aware of a regret that he was not more elated over his friend’s success and over his own signal victory.  The one critic in the United States had pronounced favorably on the poem, while his own contention that good stuff could find its way into the magazines had proved correct.  But enthusiasm had lost its spring in him, and he found that he was more anxious to see Brissenden than he was to carry the good news.  The acceptance of The Parthenon had recalled to him that during his five days’ devotion to “Overdue” he had not heard from Brissenden nor even thought about him.  For the first time Martin realized the daze he had been in, and he felt shame for having forgotten his friend.  But even the shame did not burn very sharply.  He was numb to emotions of any sort save the artistic ones concerned in the writing of “Overdue.”  So far as other affairs were concerned, he had been in a trance.  For that matter, he was still in a trance.  All this life through which the electric car whirred seemed remote and unreal, and he would have experienced little interest and less shook if the great stone steeple of the church he passed had suddenly crumbled to mortar-dust upon his head.

At the hotel he hurried up to Brissenden’s room, and hurried down again.  The room was empty.  All luggage was gone.

“Did Mr. Brissenden leave any address?” he asked the clerk, who looked at him curiously for a moment.

“Haven’t you heard?” he asked.

Martin shook his head.

“Why, the papers were full of it.  He was found dead in bed.  Suicide.  Shot himself through the head.”

“Is he buried yet?” Martin seemed to hear his voice, like some one else’s voice, from a long way off, asking the question.

“No.  The body was shipped East after the inquest.  Lawyers engaged by his people saw to the arrangements.”

“They were quick about it, I must say,” Martin commented.

“Oh, I don’t know.  It happened five days ago.”

“Five days ago?”

“Yes, five days ago.”

“Oh,” Martin said as he turned and went out.

At the corner he stepped into the Western Union and sent a telegram to The Parthenon, advising them to proceed with the publication of the poem.  He had in his pocket but five cents with which to pay his carfare home, so he sent the message collect.

Once in his room, he resumed his writing.  The days and nights came and went, and he sat at his table and wrote on.  He went nowhere, save to the pawnbroker, took no exercise, and ate methodically when he was hungry and had something to cook, and just as methodically went without when he had nothing to cook.  Composed as the story was, in advance, chapter by chapter, he nevertheless saw and developed an opening that increased the power of it, though it necessitated twenty thousand