ateful as the thought was
to me, I must return at once and find out where I stood.

I left my dinner still unfinished, paying for the whole, of course, and
tossing the waiter a gold piece. I was reckless; I knew not what was
mine, and cared not: I must take what I could get and give as I was
able; to rob and to squander seemed the complementary parts of my new
destiny. I walked up Bush Street, whistling, brazening myself to
confront Mamie in the first place, and the world at large and a certain
visionary judge upon a bench in the second. Just outside, I stopped and
lighted a cigar to give me greater countenance; and puffing this and
wearing what (I am sure) was a wretched assumption of braggadocio, I
reappeared on the scene of my disgrace.

My friend and his wife were finishing a poor meal--rags of old mutton,
the remainder cakes from breakfast eaten cold, and a starveling pot of
coffee.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pinkerton," said I. "Sorry to inflict my
presence where it cannot be desired; but there is a piece of business
necessary to be discussed."

"Pray do not consider me," said Mamie, rising, and she sailed into the
adjoining bedroom.

Jim watched her go and shook his head; he looked miserably old and ill.

"What is it now?" he asked.

"Perhaps you remember you answered none of my questions," said I.

"Your questions?" faltered Jim.

"Even so, Jim; my questions," I repeated. "I put questions as well as
yourself; and however little I may have satisfied Mamie with my answers,
I beg to remind you that you gave me none at all."

"You mean about the bankruptcy?" asked Jim.

I nodded.

He writhed in his chair. "The straight truth is, I was ashamed," he
said. "I was trying to dodge you. I've been playing fast and loose with
you, Loudon; I've deceived you from the first, I blush to own it. And
here you came home and put the very question I was fearing. Why did we
bust so soon? Your keen business eye had not deceived you. That's the
point, that's my shame; that's what killed me this afternoon when Mamie
was treating you so, and my conscience was telling me all the time,
'Thou art the man.'"

"What was it, Jim?" I asked.

"What I had been at all the time, Loudon," he wailed; "and I don't know
how I'm to look you in the face and say it, after my duplicity. It was
stocks," he added in a whisper.

"And you were afraid to tell me that!" I cried. "You poor, old,
cheerless dreamer! what would it matter what you