he big, round
eyes--the people who are going somewhere, and the artist who is going
nowhere, are on their way.

He has taken a seat facing the faded woman, and is unconsciously
studying her face. She is still hushing the babe to rest. On one side
the sleeper is huddled up against her. On the other, next to the window
and resting upon its knees, the child with the big, round eyes stares
out into the darkness.

The coach is warm. The heat and the strong liquor are beginning to tell
on him. The face before him begins to mingle with all sorts of
impossible fancies. The roar of the flying train is in his ears, but it
seems the roar of some mighty sea that is about to overwhelm him. The
conductor, coming through, shakes his arm to rouse him.

"Tickets!"

"Oh, yes!"--he forgot. He thrusts a bill into the conductor's hand.
"Keep the change, I will ride it out."

The drowsiness is again stealing upon him. He still sees the wretched
face before him and is studying it; but always between them are those
other faces--the face of Eva Delorme and of Evelin March--and the
piteous, frightened look that rests now upon one, now upon the
other,--and now the two are melting--melting into one, like the
blending outlines of a dissolving view--and both fade out into the
little white globe with its whirling black words, that the hum of the
train flying through the night keeps repeating over, and over, and
over,--"Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes."

VII.

The sky was beginning to get gray with morning when the night express,
more than a hundred and fifty miles from its starting point, rushed into
a little station and halted a moment for water, panting and fretting to
be on its way. A figure stepped from it to the platform, staggering a
little as from the motion of the train. It was a young man. His eyes
were bloodshot, his face stained with the grime of travel. His soft felt
hat and his short, velvet coat were covered with cinders and dust. One
would hardly have recognized the artist, Julian Goetze.

The station agent stood a few feet away with a lantern. He looked up
somewhat astonished as this odd figure approached him. "Some drunken
showman," he thought.

The man came closer, as if to speak to him.

"How far back to Saint Louis?" he asked, anxiously.

"One hundred and fifty-three miles."

"When can I get a train?"

"At eleven-thirty, if it's on time."

"Is it usually on time?"

"Hardly ever;