cond
floor a throng of memories returned with the sensations of creaky
steps, musty smell, and dim light. When he pushed open a door on which
MANTON & CO. showed in black letters he caught his breath. Long--long
past! Was it possible that he had been penned up for three years in
this stifling place?

Manton carried on various lines of business, and for Middleville, he
was held to be something of a merchant and broker. Lane was wholly
familiar with the halls, the several lettered doors, the large
unpartitioned office at the back of the building. Here his slow
progress was intercepted by a slip of a girl who asked him what he
wanted. Before answering, Lane took stock of the girl. She might have
been all of fifteen--no older. She had curly bobbed hair, and a face
that would have been comely but for the powder and rouge. She was
chewing gum, and she ogled Lane.

"I want to see Mr. Manton," Lane said.

"What name, please."

"Daren Lane."

She tripped off toward the door leading to Manton's private offices,
and Lane's gaze, curiously following her, found her costume to be
startling even to his expectant eyes. Then she disappeared. Lane's
gaze sought the corner and desk that once upon a time had been his. A
blond young lady, also with bobbed hair, was operating a typewriter at
his desk. She glanced up, and espying Lane, she suddenly stopped her
work. She recognized him. But, if she were Hattie Wilson, it was
certain that Lane did not recognize her. Then the office girl
returned.

"Step this way, please. Mr. Smith will see you."

How singularly it struck Lane that not once in three years had he
thought of Smith. But when he saw him, the intervening months were as
nothing. Lean, spare, pallid, with baggy eyes, and the nose of a
drinker, Smith had not changed.

"How do, Lane. So you're back? Welcome to our city," he said,
extending a nerveless hand that felt to Lane like a dead fish.

"Hello, Mr. Smith. Yes, I'm back," returned Lane, taking the chair
Smith indicated. And then he met the inevitable questions as best he
could in order not to appear curt or uncivil.

"I'd like to see Mr. Manton to ask for my old job," interposed Lane,
presently.

"He's busy now, Lane, but maybe he'll see you. I'll find out."

Smith got up and went out. Lane sat there with a vague sense of
absurdity in the situation. The click of a typewriter sounded from
behind him. He wanted to hurry out. He wanted to think of other
things, and tw