“I must go out into the hustle of the street, into the din and sound, and get down my nerves and get back my head.  Then I shall be able to think clear and true, and I will come back to you, and together we will see if I have done anything that makes me unfit to touch the cheek and the hands and the lips of the best and most beautiful woman God ever put upon earth.  Beulah, you know I would not deceive you to save my body from the fires of this world, and my soul from the torture of the damned, and I promise you that if I find that I have done wrong, what you call wrong, what your father would call wrong, I will do what you say to atone.”

He took her head between his hands, gently, reverently, and touching his lips to her glorious golden hair, he went away.

Beulah Sands turned to me.  “Please, Mr. Randolph, go with him.  He is soul-dazed.  One can never tell what a heart sorely perplexed will prompt its owner to do.  Often in the night when I have got myself into a fever from thinking of my father’s situation, I have had awful temptations.  The agents of the devil seek the wretched when none of those they love are by.  I have often thought some of the blackest tragedies of the earth might have been averted if there had been a true friend to stand at the wrung one’s elbow at the fatal minute of decision and point to the sun behind, just when the black ahead grew unendurable.  Please follow Mr. Brownley that you may be ready, should his awakening to what he has done become unbearable.  Tell him the dreaded morrows are never as terrible actually as they seem in anticipation.”

I overtook Bob just outside the office.  I did not speak to him, for I realised that he was in no mood for company.  I dropped in behind, determined that I would not lose sight of him.  It was almost one o’clock.  Wall Street was at its meridian of frenzy, every one on a wild rush.  The day’s doing had packed the always-crowded money lane.  The newsboys were shouting afternoon editions.  “Terrible panic in Wall Street.  One man against millions.  Robert Brownley broke ‘the Street.’  Made twenty millions in an hour.  Banks failed.  Wreck and ruin everywhere.  President Snow of Asterfield National a suicide.”  Bob gave no sign of hearing.  He strode with a slow, measured gait, his head erect, his eyes staring ahead at space, a man thinking, thinking, thinking for his salvation.  Many hurrying men looked at him, some with an expression of unutterable hatred, as though they wanted to attack him.  Then again there were those who called him by name with a laugh of joy; and some turned to watch him in curiosity.  It was easy to pick the wounded from those who shared in his victory, and from those who knew the frenzied finance buzz-saw only by its buzz.  Bob saw none.  Where could he be going?  He came to the head of the street of coin and crime and crossed Broadway.  His path was blocked by the fence surrounding old Trinity’s churchyard.  Grasping the pickets