Somehow, so long as he knew she was at the Casino, though he had never any intention of going near her, there was a subconscious comfort for him—­he was not quite alone.  The show seemed such a fixture that, after a month or two, he began to take it for granted that it was still running.  In September it went on the road and he did not notice it.  When all but twenty dollars of his money was gone, he moved to a fifteen-cent lodging-house in the Bowery, where there was a bare lounging-room filled with tables and benches as well as some chairs.  Here his preference was to close his eyes and dream of other days, a habit which grew upon him.  It was not sleep at first, but a mental hearkening back to scenes and incidents in his Chicago life.  As the present became darker, the past grew brighter, and all that concerned it stood in relief.

He was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of him until one day he found his lips repeating an old answer he had made to one of his friends.  They were in Fitzgerald and Moy’s.  It was as if he stood in the door of his elegant little office, comfortably dressed, talking to Sagar Morrison about the value of South Chicago real estate in which the latter was about to invest.

“How would you like to come in on that with me?” he heard Morrison say.

“Not me,” he answered, just as he had years before.  “I have my hands full now.”

The movement of his lips aroused him.  He wondered whether he had really spoken.  The next time he noticed anything of the sort he really did talk.

“Why don’t you jump, you bloody fool?” he was saying.  “Jump!”

It was a funny English story he was telling to a company of actors.  Even as his voice recalled him, he was smiling.  A crusty old codger, sitting near by, seemed disturbed; at least, he stared in a most pointed way.  Hurstwood straightened up.  The humor of the memory fled in an instant and he felt ashamed.  For relief, he left his chair and strolled out into the streets.

One day, looking down the ad. columns of the “Evening World,” he saw where a new play was at the Casino.  Instantly, he came to a mental halt.  Carrie had gone!  He remembered seeing a poster of her only yesterday, but no doubt it was one left uncovered by the new signs.  Curiously, this fact shook him up.  He had almost to admit that somehow he was depending upon her being in the city.  Now she was gone.  He wondered how this important fact had skipped him.  Goodness knows when she would be back now.  Impelled by a nervous fear, he rose and went into the dingy hall, where he counted his remaining money, unseen.  There were but ten dollars in all.

He wondered how all these other lodging-house people around him got along.  They didn’t seem to do anything.  Perhaps they begged—­ unquestionably they did.  Many was the dime he had given to such as they in his day.  He had seen other men asking for money on the streets.  Maybe he could get some that way.  There was horror in this thought.