It occurred one day that John Hardshaw was possessed by the spirit of unrest.  God knows what led him whither he went, but he crossed Market Street and held his way northward over the hills, and downward into the region known as North Beach.  Turning aimlessly to the left he followed his toes along an unfamiliar street until he was opposite what for that period was a rather grand dwelling, and for this is a rather shabby factory.  Casting his eyes casually upward he saw at an open window what it had been better that he had not seen—­the face and figure of Elvira Barwell.  Their eyes met.  With a sharp exclamation, like the cry of a startled bird, the lady sprang to her feet and thrust her body half out of the window, clutching the casing on each side.  Arrested by the cry, the people in the street below looked up.  Hardshaw stood motionless, speechless, his eyes two flames.  “Take care!” shouted some one in the crowd, as the woman strained further and further forward, defying the silent, implacable law of gravitation, as once she had defied that other law which God thundered from Sinai.  The suddenness of her movements had tumbled a torrent of dark hair down her shoulders, and now it was blown about her cheeks, almost concealing her face.  A moment so, and then—!  A fearful cry rang through the street, as, losing her balance, she pitched headlong from the window, a confused and whirling mass of skirts, limbs, hair, and white face, and struck the pavement with a horrible sound and a force of impact that was felt a hundred feet away.  For a moment all eyes refused their office and turned from the sickening spectacle on the sidewalk.  Drawn again to that horror, they saw it strangely augmented.  A man, hatless, seated flat upon the paving stones, held the broken, bleeding body against his breast, kissing the mangled cheeks and streaming mouth through tangles of wet hair, his own features indistinguishably crimson with the blood that half-strangled him and ran in rills from his soaken beard.

The reporter’s task is nearly finished.  The Barwells had that very morning returned from a two years’ absence in Peru.  A week later the widower, now doubly desolate, since there could be no missing the significance of Hardshaw’s horrible demonstration, had sailed for I know not what distant port; he has never come back to stay.  Hardshaw—­as Johnson no longer—­passed a year in the Stockton asylum for the insane, where also, through the influence of pitying friends, his wife was admitted to care for him.  When he was discharged, not cured but harmless, they returned to the city; it would seem ever to have had some dreadful fascination for them.  For a time they lived near the Mission Dolores, in poverty only less abject than that which is their present lot; but it was too far away from the objective point of the man’s daily pilgrimage.  They could not afford car fare.  So that poor devil of an angel from Heaven—­wife to this convict and lunatic—­obtained, at a fair enough rental, the blank-faced shanty on the lower terrace of Goat Hill.  Thence to the structure that was a dwelling and is a factory the distance is not so great; it is, in fact, an agreeable walk, judging from the man’s eager and cheerful look as he takes it.  The return journey appears to be a trifle wearisome.