“Only two, Mike; and the mackintosh and hat-case,” answered Felix, who had watched him stumbling up the stairs until his red face was level with the landing.  “By the way, mind you don’t lose the rubber coat, for, although I never wear an overcoat, this comes in well when it rains.”

“I’ll never take me eyes off it.  I bet ye niver bought that down on the Bowery from a Johnny-hand-me-down!”

“And, Mike!”

“Yes, sor?”

“Will you please say to Mrs. Cleary that I may not be in to-night before eleven o’clock?”

“Eleven!  Why that’s the shank o’ the evenin’ for her, sor.  If it was twelve, or after, she’d be up.”  Then he bent forward and whispered:  “I should think ye would be glad, sor, to get out of this rookery.”

Felix nodded in assent, waited until the leather trunk had been dumped into the wagon, watched Mike remount the stairs until he had reached his landing, helped him to load up the balance of his luggage—­the tin box on one shoulder, the coat over the other, the hat-case in the free hand—­and then walked back to his empty room.  Here he made a thoughtful survey of the dismal place in which he had spent so many months, picked up his blackthorn stick, and, leaving the door ajar, walked slowly down-stairs, his hand on the rail as a guide in the dark.

“And you aren’t comin’ back, sir?” remarked the landlady, who had listened for his steps.

“That, madame, one never can tell.”

“Well, you are always welcome.”

“Thank you—­good-by.”

“Good-by, sir; my husband’s out or he would like to shake your hand.”

O’Day bowed slightly and stepped into the street, his stick under his arm, his hands hooked behind his back.  That he had no immediate purpose in view was evident from the way he loitered along, stopping to look at the store windows or to scrutinize the passing crowd, each person intent on his or her special business.  By the time he had reached Broadway the upper floors of the business buildings were dark, but the windows of the restaurants, cigar shops, and saloons had begun to blaze out and a throng of pleasure seekers to replace that of the shoppers and workers.  This aspect of New York appealed to him most.  There were fewer people moving about the streets and in less of a hurry, and he could study them the closer.

In a cheap restaurant off Union Square he ate a spare and inexpensive meal, whiled away an hour over the free afternoon papers, went out to watch an audience thronging into one of the smaller theatres, and then boarded a down-town car.  When he reached Trinity Church the clock was striking, and, as he often did when here at this hour, he entered the open gate and, making his way among the shadows sat down, on a flat tomb.  The gradual transition from the glare and rush of the up-town streets to the sombre stillness of this ancient graveyard always seemed to him like the shifting of films upon a screen, a replacement of the city of the living by the city of the dead.  High up in the gloom soared the spire of the old church, its cross lost in shadows.  Still higher, their roofs melting into the dusky blue vault, rose the great office-buildings, crowding close as if ready to pounce upon the small space protected only by the sacred ashes of the dead.