and scurrying myriads! Time passed; he
remained oblivious to the babble of voices. Timon in the wilderness,
Diogenes in his tub, could not have been mentally more isolated from
annoying human consociation than was at the moment Mr. Heatherbloom,
perched on a rickety stool amid a conglomeration of females struggling
for lingerie.

Suddenly he stirred. "Have you a book department?" he asked an employee.

"Straight across; last aisle to the left."

Mr. Heatherbloom got up; his tread was slow; a somnambulistic gleam
appeared in his eye. Yet he was very much awake; he had never felt more
keenly alert. He reached the book section.

Did they have any Russian fiction? Oh, yes; what kind did he want,
nihilistic or psychological? _The Fire and Sword_ kind, whatever that
was; the second volume of the trilogy, if they had it in stock? Sure
they had; but had he read the first volume? No; he didn't want that; he
would begin in the middle of the trilogy. He always read trilogies that
way.

The young lady in charge looked what she thought as she handed him the
book. He paid her; unfortunately it cost more than the popular novels of
the day. He rather gravely contemplated the few small bills he had left;
the amount of his capital would not carry him very far, especially if
unusual expenses should occur. Miss Van Rolsen still owed him a little
money but he didn't see how he could collect that now.

Mr. Heatherbloom, armed with his book, sought a different part of the
store--- a small reception-room, where customers of both sexes were at
liberty to read, write, or indulge in mental rest-cure, after bargain
purchases. There he perused hurriedly, and by snatches, the volume;
there was plenty of fire and plenty of sword in it; human passions
bubbled and seethed. Suddenly he sat up straight and a suppressed
exclamation fell from his lips; he closed the book sharply.

One or two old ladies looked at him but he did not see them. His vision,
clairvoyant-like, seemed to have lifted, to traverse broad seas,
limitless steppes. His hands opened and closed, as if striving to reach
and clutch something beyond flame of battle, scenes of rapine.

He got up dizzily. As he stepped once more into the street, the shadows
had lengthened; twilight was falling. He stopped at a pawnbroker's,
purchased a revolver and cartridges. He might need the weapon now more
than ever. And money--he needed far more of that than he had. He spread
in his palm the lit