Young Anderson had never seen a morgue, and to-night, owing to his condition, his dread of it was child-like.  It seemed as if this particular charnel-house harbored some grisly thing which stood between him and food and warmth and hope; the nearer he drew to it the greater grew his dread.  A discourteous man, shrunken as if from the chill of the place, was hunched up in front of a glowing stove.  He greeted Anderson sourly: 

“Out into that courtyard; turn to the left—­second door,” he directed.  “She’s in the third compartment.”

Anderson lacked courage to ask the fellow to come along, but stumbled out into a snow-filled areaway lighted by a swinging incandescent which danced to the swirling eddies.

Compartment!  He supposed bodies were kept upon slabs or tables, or something like that.  He had steeled himself to see rows of unspeakable sights, played upon by dripping water, but he found nothing of the sort.

The second door opened into a room which he discovered was colder than the night outside, evidently the result of artificial refrigeration.  He was relieved to find the place utterly bare except for a sort of car or truck which ran around the room on a track beneath a row of square doors.  These doors evidently opened into the compartments alluded to by the keeper.

Which compartment had the fellow said?  Paul abruptly discovered that he was rattled, terribly rattled, and he turned back out of the place.  He paused shortly, however, and took hold of himself.

“Now, now!” he said, aloud.  “You’re a bum reporter, my boy.”  An instant later he forced himself to jerk open the first door at his hand.

For what seemed a full minute he stared into the cavern, as if petrified, then he closed the door softly.  Sweat had started from his every pore.  Alone once more in the great room, he stood shivering.  “God!” he muttered.  This was newspaper training indeed.

He remembered now having read, several days before, about an Italian laborer who had been crushed by a falling column.  To one unaccustomed to death in any form that object, head-on in the obscurity of the compartment, had been a trying sight.  He began to wonder if it were really cold or stiflingly hot.

The boy ground his teeth and flung open the next door, slamming it hurriedly again to blot out what it exposed.  Why didn’t they keep them covered?  Why didn’t they show a card outside?  Must he examine every grisly corpse upon the premises?

He stepped to the third door and wrenched it open.  He knew the girl at once by her wealth of yellow hair and the beauty of her still, white face.  There was no horror here, no ghastly sight to weaken a man’s muscles and sicken his stomach; only a tired girl asleep.  Anderson felt a great pity as he wheeled the truck opposite the door and reverently drew out the slab on which the body lay.  He gazed upon her intently for some time.  She was not at all as he had pictured her, and yet there could be no mistake.  He took the printed description from his pocket and reread it carefully, comparing it point by point.  When he had finished he found that it was a composite word photograph, vaguely like and yet totally unlike the person it was intended to portray, and so lacking in character that no one knowing the original intimately would have been likely to recognize her from it.