r 5._ Let me think; I am confused. This hotel is vile,
abominable, but there is no other. That cursed odor of stale tobacco,
and of cookery!

The landlord says they were here yesterday and went West. It's easy to
trace them--everybody notices. A tall man, dark, with a firm jaw; the
most beautiful woman they have ever seen--they all say the same. My
God! and I'm hung up here, inactive a whole day! But I'll find them,
they can't escape; and then they'll laugh at me, probably.

What can I do? I don't know. I can't think. I must find them first ...
that cursed odor again!

Oh, what a child, a worse than fool I have been! To sit there in town
pouring the best work of my life into his hands! I must have that
book, I will have it. To think how I trusted her--waited until my hair
began to turn--for this!

But I must stop. This is useless, it's madness.

_September 9._ It is a beautiful night. I have just come in from a
long walk, how long I don't know. I went to the suburbs and through
the parks, watching the young people sitting, two and two, in the
shadow. I smiled at the sight, for in fancy I could hear what they
were saying. Then I wandered over to the lakefront and stood a long
time, with the waves lapping musically against the rocks below, and
the moonlight glistening on a million reflectors. The great stretch of
water in front, and the great city behind me sang low in concord,
while the stars looked down smiling at the refrain. "Be calm, little
mortal, be calm," they said; "calm, tiny mortal, calm," repeated
endlessly, until the mood took hold of me, and in sympathy I smiled in
return.

Was it yesterday? It seems a month since I found them. Was it I who
was so hot and angry? I hold up my hand; it is as steady as my
mother's when, years ago, as a boy, she laid it on my forehead with
her good-night. The murmur of this big hotel speaks soothingly, like
the voice of an old friend. The purr of the elevator is a voice I
know. It all seems incredible. To-day is so commonplace and real, and
yesterday so remote and fantastic.

He was lounging in the lobby, a hand in either pocket, when I touched
him on the shoulder. He turned, but neither hands nor face failed him
by a motion.

"I presume you would prefer to talk in private?" I said, "Will you
come to my room?"

A smile formed slowly over his lips.

"I don't wish to deprive my--" He paused, and his eyes met mine,"--my
wife of a pleasant chat with an old friend. I wo