Would a night of thought reveal such a method?  Night! the very word brought inspiration.  A man is not his full self at night.  Secrets which, under the ordinary circumstances of everyday life, lie too deep for surprise, creep from their hiding-places in the dismal hours of universal quiet, and lips which are dumb to the most subtle of questioners break into strange and self-revealing mutterings when sleep lies heavy on ear and eye and the forces of life and death are released to play with the rudderless spirit.

It was in different words from these that Sweetwater reasoned, no doubt, but his conclusions were the same, and as he continued to brood over them, he saw a chance—­a fool’s chance, possibly, (but fools sometimes win where wise men fail) of reaching those depths he still believed in, notwithstanding his failure to sound them.

Addressing a letter to his friend in Twenty-ninth Street, he awaited reply in the shape of a small package he had ordered sent to the corner drug-store.  When it came, he carried it home in a state of mingled hope and misgiving.  Was he about to cap his fortnight of disappointment by another signal failure; end the matter by disclosing his hand; lose all, or win all by an experiment as daring and possibly as fanciful as were his continued suspicions of this seemingly upright and undoubtedly busy man?

He made no attempt to argue the question.  The event called for the exercise of the most dogged elements in his character and upon these he must rely.  He would make the effort he contemplated, simply because he was minded to do so.  That was all there was to it.  But any one noting him well that night, would have seen that he ate little and consulted his watch continually.  Sweetwater had not yet passed the line where work becomes routine and the feelings remain totally under control.

Brotherson was unusually active and alert that evening.  He was anxious to fit one delicate bit of mechanism into another, and he was continually interrupted by visitors.  Some big event was on in the socialistic world, and his presence was eagerly demanded by one brotherhood after another.  Sweetwater, posted at his loop-hole, heard the arguments advanced by each separate spokesman, followed by Brotherson’s unvarying reply:  that when his work was done and he had proved his right to approach them with a message, they might look to hear from him again; but not before.  His patience was inexhaustible, but he showed himself relieved when the hour grew too late for further interruption.  He began to whistle—­a token that all was going well with him, and Sweetwater, who had come to understand some of his moods, looked forward to an hour or two of continuous work on Brotherson’s part and of dreary and impatient waiting on his own.  But, as so many times before, he misread the man.  Earlier than common—­much earlier, in fact, Mr. Brotherson laid down his tools and gave himself