“Eighty thousand!” he thought.  “What an awful thing that is.”

This was new reasoning for Hurstwood.  In the old days the world had seemed to be getting along well enough.  He had been wont to see similar things in the “Daily News,” in Chicago, but they did not hold his attention.  Now, these things were like gray clouds hovering along the horizon of a clear day.  They threatened to cover and obscure his life with chilly grayness.  He tried to shake them off, to forget and brace up.  Sometimes he said to himself, mentally: 

“What’s the use worrying?  I’m not out yet.  I’ve got six weeks more.  Even if worst comes to worst, I’ve got enough to live on for six months.”

Curiously, as he troubled over his future, his thoughts occasionally reverted to his wife and family.  He had avoided such thoughts for the first three years as much as possible.  He hated her, and he could get along without her.  Let her go.  He would do well enough.  Now, however, when he was not doing well enough, he began to wonder what she was doing, how his children were getting along.  He could see them living as nicely as ever, occupying the comfortable house and using his property.

“By George! it’s a shame they should have it all,” he vaguely thought to himself on several occasions.  “I didn’t do anything.”

As he looked back now and analyzed the situation which led up to his taking the money, he began mildly to justify himself.  What had he done—­what in the world—­that should bar him out this way and heap such difficulties upon him?  It seemed only yesterday to him since he was comfortable and well-to-do.  But now it was all wrested from him.

“She didn’t deserve what she got out of me, that is sure.  I didn’t do so much, if everybody could just know.”

There was no thought that the facts ought to be advertised.  It was only a mental justification he was seeking from himself-something that would enable him to bear his state as a righteous man.

One afternoon, five weeks before the Warren Street place closed up, he left the saloon to visit three or four places he saw advertised in the “Herald.”  One was down in Gold Street, and he visited that, but did not enter.  It was such a cheap looking place he felt that he could not abide it.  Another was on the Bowery, which he knew contained many showy resorts.  It was near Grand Street, and turned out to be very handsomely fitted up.  He talked around about investments for fully three-quarters of an hour with the proprietor, who maintained that his health was poor, and that was the reason he wished a partner.

“Well, now, just how much money would it take to buy a half interest here?” said Hurstwood, who saw seven hundred dollars as his limit.

“Three thousand,” said the man.

Hurstwood’s jaw fell.

“Cash?” he said.

“Cash.”

He tried to put on an air of deliberation, as one who might really buy; but his eyes showed gloom.  He wound up by saying he would think it over, and came away.  The man he had been talking to sensed his condition in a vague way.