A month had elapsed since he had called at the house.  I had caught sight of him once on Broadway as I was riding up town in an omnibus.  He was standing at the top of the steep flight of steps that led to Herr Pfaff’s saloon in the basement.  It was probably Flagg’s dinner hour.  Mrs. Morgan, the landlady in Macdougal Street, a melancholy little soul, was now the only link between me and my kinsman.  I had a weekly interview with her.  I learned that Mr. Flagg slept late, was seldom in during the day, and usually returned after midnight.  A person with this eccentric scheme of life was not likely to be at home at such hours as I might find it convenient to call.  Nevertheless, from time to time I knocked at the unresponsive door of his room.  The two notes I had written to him he left unanswered.

All this was very grievous.  He had been a trouble to me when I had him, and he was a trouble to me now I had lost him.  My trouble had merely changed its color.  On what downward way were his footsteps?  What was to be the end of it?  Sometimes I lay awake at night thinking of him.  Of course, if he went to the dogs, he had nobody to blame but himself.  I was not responsible for his wrong-going; nevertheless, I could not throw off my anxiety in the matter.  That Flagg was leading a wild life in these days was presumable.  Indeed, certain rumors to that effect were indirectly blown to me from the caves of Gambrinus.  Not that I believe the bohemians demoralized him.  He probably demoralized the bohemians.  I began to reflect whether fate had not behaved rather handsomely, after all, in not giving me a great many relatives.

If I remember rightly, it was two months since I had laid eyes on my cousin, when, on returning home one evening, I noticed that the front door stood wide open, and had apparently been left to take care of itself.  As I mounted the steps, a little annoyed at Mary’s carelessness, I heard voices in the hall.  Washington Flagg was standing at the foot of the staircase, with his hand on the newel-post, and Mrs. Wesley was halfway up the stairs, as if in the act of descending.  I learned later that she had occupied this position for about three quarters of an hour.  She was extremely pale and much agitated.  Flagg’s flushed face and tilted hat told his part of the story.  He was not in one of his saturnine moods.  He was amiably, and, if I may say it, gracefully drunk, and evidently had all his wits about him.

“I’ve been telling Mrs. Wesley,” he began at once, as if I had been present all the while, and he was politely lifting me into the conversation—­“I’ve been telling Mrs. Wesley that I’m a Lost Cause.”

“A lost soul,” was Mrs. Wesley’s amendment from the staircase.  “Oh, Tom, I am so glad you have come!  I thought you never would!  I let him in an hour or two ago, and he has kept me here ever since.”

“You were so entertaining,” said my cousin, with a courteous sweep of his disengaged hand, and speaking with that correctness of enunciation which sometimes survives everything.