he had come in with the
harness-maker the previous afternoon. Trina even humbled herself to ask
of the Ryers--with whom they had quarrelled--if they knew anything of
the dentist's whereabouts, but received a contemptuous negative.

"Maybe he's come in while I've been out," said Trina to herself. She
went down Polk Street again, going towards the flat. The rain had
stopped, but the sidewalks were still glistening. The cable cars
trundled by, loaded with theatregoers. The barbers were just closing
their shops. The candy store on the corner was brilliantly lighted and
was filling up, while the green and yellow lamps from the drug store
directly opposite threw kaleidoscopic reflections deep down into the
shining surface of the asphalt. A band of Salvationists began to play
and pray in front of Frenna's saloon. Trina hurried on down the gay
street, with its evening's brilliancy and small activities, her shawl
over her head, one hand lifting her faded skirt from off the wet
pavements. She turned into the alley, entered Zerkow's old home by the
ever-open door, and ran up-stairs to the room. Nobody.

"Why, isn't this FUNNY," she exclaimed, half aloud, standing on the
threshold, her little milk-white forehead curdling to a frown, one sore
finger on her lips. Then a great fear seized upon her. Inevitably she
associated the house with a scene of violent death.

"No, no," she said to the darkness, "Mac is all right. HE can take
care of himself." But for all that she had a clear-cut vision of her
husband's body, bloated with seawater, his blond hair streaming like
kelp, rolling inertly in shifting waters.

"He couldn't have fallen off the rocks," she declared firmly.
"There--THERE he is now." She heaved a great sigh of relief as a heavy
tread sounded in the hallway below. She ran to the banisters, looking
over, and calling, "Oh, Mac! Is that you, Mac?" It was the German whose
family occupied the lower floor. The power-house clock struck nine.

"My God, where is Mac?" cried Trina, stamping her foot.

She put the shawl over her head again, and went out and stood on the
corner of the alley and Polk Street, watching and waiting, craning her
neck to see down the street. Once, even, she went out upon the sidewalk
in front of the flat and sat down for a moment upon the horse-block
there. She could not help remembering the day when she had been driven
up to that horse-block in a hack. Her mother and father and Owgooste and
the twins w