The man listens for these noises.  There is a loud clapping of hands.  An address has concluded.

The glasses tinkle.  Doors open and shut.  Waiters and servants run through the hall giving orders and carrying on those quarrels which pertain to the unseen parts of public festivities.

“Why did I not go?” David Lockwin asks.  “Ah! yes.  Davy!  Davy’s tomb.  I will see it, if it shall kill me to live until then.  But how shall I pass this night?  What shall I do?  What shall I do?”

The glasses tinkle.  The laughter bursts forth unrestrainedly.  The banquet is moving to the inn-keeper’s taste.

The electric lights swing on long wires.  The glass in the windows is full of imperfections and sooty.  The phantasmagoria on the wall distracts the suffering man.  Why not have a light?  He rises and turns on the gas.  Perhaps there will be a paper or a book in the room.  That will help.

Poverty of hotel life!  There is only the card of rules hung on the door.  Lockwin reads the rules and is thankful.  He studies the lock history of the door, as represented in the marks of old locks and staples.  Here a burglar has bored.  Here a chisel has penetrated to push back the bolt.  Yes, it was a burglar, for there is now a brass sheath to prevent another entry.  Most of these breakages, however, have been made by the hotel people, as can be seen by the transom locks.

That brings up suicides.  David Lockwin has committed suicide once.  The subject is odious.

The laughter below resounds.  The man above will read from the lining of some bureau drawer.

He goes to that piece of furniture.  The dressing-case is completely empty excepting a laundry bill on pink paper.

He clutches that.  He examines the printer’s mark.  He strives to recall the particular printing-office.

He has not the courage to go forth into the street.  He does not want to read, except as it shall ease him from the cruel torment which he feels.

The glasses jingle and chime.  The stores across the street close their doors and darken their show windows.  Why not go below and buy the latest novel?

The suggestion fairly sickens the man.  He did not know he was so nervous.  To read ror pastime while a great city is filled with his obsequies—­he cannot do it!

There is but one course—­to read the rules, to study the history of the door until it reaches the stage of suicide—­ah! to feel in one’s pockets!  That is it!  That is it!

David Lockwin cons his bank-book.  He opens his worn letters—–­letters to the Hon. David Lockwin.  He grows timid as he descends into the vale of despair.

Why did he do it?  These details of the electoral campaign seem trivial now.  Easy difficulties!

He reaches the last letter of the packet.  Marvelous that he should wait to unseal it until an hour so fraught with need!