something outside the commonplace. To me
there might be, of course, some novelty in the things that might
confront us, though to Harlson they were, at their utmost, but a
reminiscence. We went where a man alone was not in safe companionship,
but there were enough who knew my companion well, and all was curious
to me, without even the spice of care for self.

It chanced that at one period of the wandering, very late at night, or,
rather, early morning, Harlson became hungry, and insisted upon
entrance to a restaurant where were gathered the very refuse of the
reckless and non-law-abiding, and I went with him, perforce, and saw a
motley gathering. There were all sorts of people there, from thief to
pander, all save those who might retain a claim to faint
respectability. Harlson demanded comparative cleanliness at our table,
and the food was fairly decent. We ate, then smoked, and looked about
us.

I have seen many people, and many strange faces, but never such a
person nor such a face as of an old woman who sat at that early hour of
the morning at a table near us. The figure was a warped and withered
caricature, the face that of a hag, a creature vixenish and viperish,
and mean and crafty. It was the face of a procuress of the lowest and
most desperate type, of a deformed she-wolf of the slums, of the worst
there is in all abandoned human nature, and Harlson was as interested
as I was disgusted and repelled. He noted the woman closely.

"By Jove! look there!" he said.

"What is it?"

"Look at her hand."

I looked. I saw a hand which was a claw, a strong, shriveled thing
with long, dirty nails and a vulturous suggestion. It was not a
pleasant sight. On the third finger of the left hand, though, was a
slight gleam amid the carnivorous dullness. There was a slender band
of gold there, a ring worn down to narrowness and thinness. I turned
to Harlson, but he spoke first:

"Do you see that old wedding ring?"

"Yes."

"It's queer. It's good, too. There's a streak of what was good left
in everything, it seems to me. I'm going to talk to her."

"Don't do it. She'll throw the plate in your face."

"No, she won't." And he rose and went over to the table of the beldame
and sat down beside her. She looked up at him glaringly. He did not
smile, nor, apparently, make any apology or excuse, but began talking
to her, looking at the ring, and saying I know not what. And I watched
that miserable old woma