as to walk round and
round, with an occasional excursion through the corridors and past the
elevators. He had written her, asking to see her; he had got no answer.
He ceased to wait at the elevators after he had twice narrowly escaped
being seen by Tetlow. He was indifferent to Tetlow, except as meeting
him might make it harder to see Dorothy. He drank hard. But drink never
affected him except to make him more grimly tenacious in whatever he had
deliberately and soberly resolved. Drink did not explain--neither wholly
nor in any part--this conduct of his. It, and the more erratic vagaries
to follow, will seem incredible conduct for a man of Norman's character
and position to feeble folk with their feeble desires, their dread of
criticism and ridicule, their exaggerated and adoring notions of the
master men. In fact, it was the natural outcome of the man's
nature--arrogant, contemptuous of his fellowmen and of their opinions,
and, like all the master men, capable of such concentration upon a
desire that he would adopt any means, high or low, dignified or the
reverse, if only it promised to further his end. Fred Norman, at these
vulgar vigils, took the measure of his own self-abasement to a hair's
breadth. But he kept on, with the fever of his infatuation burning like
a delirium, burning higher and deeper with each baffled day.

At noon, one day, as he swung into Broadway from Cedar street, he ran
straight into Tetlow. It was raining and his umbrella caught in
Tetlow's. It was a ludicrous situation, but there was no answering smile
in his former friend's eyes. Tetlow glowered.

"I've heard you were hanging about," he said. "How low you have sunk!"

Norman laughed in his face. "Poor Tetlow," he said. "I never expected to
see you develop into a crusader. And what a Don Quixote you look. Cheer
up, old man. Don't take it so hard."

"I warn you to keep away from her," said Tetlow in subdued, tense tones,
his fat face quivering with emotion. "Hasn't she shown you plainly that
she'll have nothing to do with you?"

"I want only five minutes' talk with her, Tetlow," said Norman, dropping
into an almost pleading tone. "And I guarantee I'll say nothing you
wouldn't approve, if you heard. You are advising her badly. You are
doing her an injury."

"I am protecting her from a scoundrel," retorted Tetlow.

"She'll not thank you for it, when she finds out the truth."

"You can write to her. What a shallow liar you are!"

"I cann