In those days passengers from Long Island came into New York by ferry.  Hedger had to be quick about getting his dog out of the express car in order to catch the first boat.  The East River, and the bridges, and the city to the west, were burning in the conflagration of the sunset; there was that great home-coming reach of evening in the air.

The car changes from Thirty-fourth Street were too many and too perplexing; for the first time in his life Hedger took a hansom cab for Washington Square.  Caesar sat bolt upright on the worn leather cushion beside him, and they jogged off, looking down on the rest of the world.

It was twilight when they drove down lower Fifth Avenue into the Square, and through the Arch behind them were the two long rows of pale violet lights that used to bloom so beautifully against the grey stone and asphalt.  Here and yonder about the Square hung globes that shed a radiance not unlike the blue mists of evening, emerging softly when daylight died, as the stars emerged in the thin blue sky.  Under them the sharp shadows of the trees fell on the cracked pavement and the sleeping grass.  The first stars and the first lights were growing silver against the gradual darkening, when Hedger paid his driver and went into the house,—­which, thank God, was still there!  On the hall table lay his letter of yesterday, unopened.

He went upstairs with every sort of fear and every sort of hope clutching at his heart; it was as if tigers were tearing him.  Why was there no gas burning in the top hall?  He found matches and the gas bracket.  He knocked, but got no answer; nobody was there.  Before his own door were exactly five bottles of milk, standing in a row.  The milk-boy had taken spiteful pleasure in thus reminding him that he forgot to stop his order.

Hedger went down to the basement; it, too, was dark.  The janitress was taking her evening airing on the basement steps.  She sat waving a palm-leaf fan majestically, her dirty calico dress open at the neck.  She told him at once that there had been “changes.”  Miss Bower’s room was to let again, and the piano would go tomorrow.  Yes, she left yesterday, she sailed for Europe with friends from Chicago.  They arrived on Friday, heralded by many telegrams.  Very rich people they were said to be, though the man had refused to pay the nurse a month’s rent in lieu of notice,—­which would have been only right, as the young lady had agreed to take the rooms until October.  Mrs. Foley had observed, too, that he didn’t overpay her or Willy for their trouble, and a great deal of trouble they had been put to, certainly.  Yes, the young lady was very pleasant, but the nurse said there were rings on the mahogany table where she had put tumblers and wine glasses.  It was just as well she was gone.  The Chicago man was uppish in his ways, but not much to look at.  She supposed he had poor health, for there was nothing to him inside his clothes.