“Well,” Witherspoon remarked one Sunday morning, “the time set by your insane friend will soon be up.”

“Yes, within a week,” DeGolyer replied.

“I should think that he is more in need of apartments in an asylum than of a newspaper; but if he thinks he knows his business, all right; we have nothing to say.  What has he agreed to give for the paper?”

“No price has been fixed, but there’ll be no trouble about that.”

“I hope not.”

“Did you understand mother and Ellen to say they were going out shopping to-morrow afternoon?” DeGolyer asked.

“Yes, but what of it?”

“There’s this of it:  If they decide to go, I want you to meet me here at three o’clock.”

“Why can’t you meet me at the store?”

“Don’t I tell you that my friend is peculiar?”

“Oh, it’s to meet him, eh?  All right, I’ll be here.”

His play was nearing the end.  To-morrow he must snatch “the make-up” off his face.  He felt a sadness that was more than half a joy.  He should be free; he should be honest, and being honest, he could summon that most sterling of all strength, a manly self-respect.  He had thought himself strong, but had found himself weak.  The love of money, which at first had seemed so gross, at last had conquered him.  This thought did not sting him now; it softened him, made him look with a more forgiving eye upon tempted human nature.  But was it money that had tempted him to turn from a purpose so resolutely formed?  Had not Witherspoon’s argument and Ellen’s persuasion left him determined to reserve one refuge for his mind—­one closet wherein he could hang the cast-off garment of real self?  Then it was the appeal of that gentle woman whom he called mother; it was not money.  But after yielding to the mother he had found himself without a prop, and at last he had felt a contempt for a moderate income and had boasted to himself that he could buy a man.  And for this he reproached himself.  How grim was that something known as fate, how mockingly did it play with the children of men, and in that mockery how cold a justice!  But he should be free, and that thought thrilled him.

In the afternoon he went over to the North Side, and along a modest street he walked, looking at the houses as if hunting for a number.  He went up a short flight of wooden steps and rang the bell of the second flat.  The hall door was open, and a moment later he saw Miss Drury at the head of the stairs.

“Why, is that you, Mr. Witherspoon?”

“Yes; may I come up?”

“What a question!  Of course you may, especially as I am as lonesome as I can be.”

He was shown into a neat sitting-room, where a canary bird “fluttered” his hanging cage up and down.  A rose was pinned on one of the white curtains.  The room was warmed by a stove, and through the isinglass the playful flame could be seen.  She brought a “tidied” rocking-chair, and smiling in her welcome, said that as this was his first visit, she must make him comfortable.  “Don’t you see,” she added, “that you constantly make me forget that I am working for you?”