atter to them, but I would
never hear the last of it all the same," and a shudder ran through him.

Peter did not tell Jack that had Portman been at home and, out of
friendship for him, had agreed to his request, he would have required
the old fellow's name on a demand note for the amount of the loan; and
that he would willingly have signed it, to relieve the boy's mind and
ward off the calamity that threatened those he loved and those who loved
him--not one cent of which, the Scribe adds in all positiveness, would
the boy have taken had he known that the dear fellow had in any way
pledged himself for its return.

For some minutes Jack sat stretched out in his chair, his body aslant;
Peter still beside him. All the events of the day and night passed in
review before him; Garry's face and heavy breathing; McGowan's visit
and defiance; Corinne's agonized shriek--even the remembrance made him
creep--then Ruth's voice and her pleading look: "The poor little boy.
Jack. He has done no wrong--all his life he must be pointed at."

He dragged himself to his feet.

"I will go back to Ruth now, Uncle Peter. Thank you for trying. I
know it is a wild goose chase, but I must keep moving. You will be
out to-morrow; we bury poor Garry at one o'clock. I still have all day
Monday. Good-night."

"Come out and dine with me, my boy--we will go to--"

"No, Ruth is worrying. I will get something to eat when I get home.
Good-night!"

CHAPTER XXIX

Jack descended Peter's stairs one step at a time, Each seemed to plunge
him the deeper into some pit of despair. Before he reached the bottom he
began to realize the futility of his efforts. He began to realize, too,
that both he and Ruth had been swept off their feet by their emotions.
MacFarlane, the elder Breen, and now Peter, had all either openly
condemned his course or had given it scant encouragement. There was
nothing to go new but go home and tell Ruth. Then, after the funeral was
over, he would have another talk with MacFarlane.

He had reached the cool air of the street, and stood hesitating whether
to cross the Square on his way to the ferry, or to turn down the avenue,
when the door of Isaac Cohen's shop opened, and the little tailor put
out his head.

"I have been waiting for you." he said in a measured voice. "Come
inside."

Jack was about to tell him that he must catch a train, when something
in the tailor's manner and the earnestness with which he spoke, made th