giving him a stone. Oh, Davy! Davy!

The outside electric lights make a thousand monuments, hospitals,
sarcophagi, portraits and panics on the chamber walls. The hours go
past. There is a bustle in the hotel. There is a sound of merriment
in the banqueting hall, directly below. The satisfaction of having
dealt tenderly by the beloved dead is expressing itself in choice
libations and eloquent addresses.

The man listens for these noises. There is a loud clapping of hands.
An address has concluded.

The glasses tinkle. Doors open and shut. Waiters and servants run
through the hall giving orders and carrying on those quarrels which
pertain to the unseen parts of public festivities.

"Why did I not go?" David Lockwin asks. "Ah! yes. Davy! Davy's tomb.
I will see it, if it shall kill me to live until then. But how shall I
pass this night? What shall I do? What shall I do?"

The glasses tinkle. The laughter bursts forth unrestrainedly. The
banquet is moving to the inn-keeper's taste.

The electric lights swing on long wires. The glass in the windows is
full of imperfections and sooty. The phantasmagoria on the wall
distracts the suffering man. Why not have a light? He rises and turns
on the gas. Perhaps there will be a paper or a book in the room. That
will help.

Poverty of hotel life! There is only the card of rules hung on the
door. Lockwin reads the rules and is thankful. He studies the lock
history of the door, as represented in the marks of old locks and
staples. Here a burglar has bored. Here a chisel has penetrated to
push back the bolt. Yes, it was a burglar, for there is now a brass
sheath to prevent another entry. Most of these breakages, however,
have been made by the hotel people, as can be seen by the transom locks.

That brings up suicides. David Lockwin has committed suicide once.
The subject is odious.

The laughter below resounds. The man above will read from the lining
of some bureau drawer.

He goes to that piece of furniture. The dressing-case is completely
empty excepting a laundry bill on pink paper.

He clutches that. He examines the printer's mark. He strives to
recall the particular printing-office.

He has not the courage to go forth into the street. He does not want
to read, except as it shall ease him from the cruel torment which he
feels.

The glasses jingle and chime. The stores across the street close their
doors and darken their show windo