ss?"

"Certainly not!" Crailey sat up, indignantly. "Can't you see that I'm
perfectly sober? It was the merest temporary fit, and I've shaken it
off. Don't you see?" He got upon his feet, staggered, but shook himself
like a dog coming out of the water, and came to the door with infirm
steps.

"You're going to bed, aren't you?" asked Tom. "You'd much better."

"No," answered Crailey. "Are you?

"No. I'm going to work."

"You've been all up night, too, haven't you?" Crailey put his hand on
the other's shoulder. "Were you hunting for me?"

"No; not last night."

Crailey lurched suddenly, and Tom caught him about the waist to steady
him.

"Sweethearting, tippling, vingt-et-un, or poker, eh, Tom?" he shouted,
thickly, with a wild laugh. "Ha, ha, old smug-face, up to my bad tricks
at last!" But, recovering himself immediately, he pushed the other off
at arm's length, and slapped himself smartly on the brow. "Never mind;
all right, all right--only a bad wave, now and then. A walk will make me
more a man than ever."

"You'd much better go to bed, Crailey."

"I can't. I'm going to change my clothes and go out."

"Why?"

Crailey did not answer, but at that moment the Catholic church-bell,
summoning the faithful to mass, pealed loudly on the morning air; and
the steady glance of Tom Vanrevel rested upon the reckless eyes of the
man beside him as they listened together to its insistent call. Tom
said, gently, almost timidly:

"You have an--engagement?"

This time the answer came briskly. "Yes; I promised to take Fanchon to
the cemetery before breakfast, to place some flowers on the grave of the
little brother who died. This happens to be his birthday."

It was Tom who averted his eyes, not Crailey.

"Then you'd best hurry," he said, hesitatingly; "I mustn't keep you,"
and went downstairs to his office with flushed cheeks, a hanging head,
and an expression which would have led a stranger to believe that he had
just been caught in a lie.

He went to the Main Street window, and seated himself upon the ledge,
the only one in the room not too dusty for occupation; for here, at this
hour, Tom had taken his place every morning since Elizabeth Carewe had
come from the convent. The window was a coign of vantage, commanding the
corner of Carewe and Main streets. Some distance west of the corner, the
Catholic church cast its long shadow across Main Street, and, in order
to enter the church, a person who lived upon Carew