ng a burnished track.
The vehicles went slowly by with a muffled sound broken only by the
creaking of the wheels in the frosty night. From the cross streets,
sounded in the distance the jangle of sleigh-bells.

CHAPTER IX

Livingstone plodded along through the snow, relieved to find that the
effort made him forget himself and banished those wretched figures. He
traversed the intervening streets and before he was conscious of it was
standing in the hall of the brilliantly lighted club. The lights dazzled
him, and he was only half sensible of the score of servants that
surrounded him with vague, half-proffers of aid in removing his
overcoat.

Without taking off his coat, Livingstone walked on into the large
assembly-room to see who might be there. It was as empty as a church.
The lights were all turned on full and the fires burned brightly in the
big hearths; but there was not a soul in the room, usually so crowded at
this hour.

Livingstone turned and crossed the marble-paved hall to another
spacious suite of rooms. Not a soul was there. The rooms were swept and
garnished, the silence and loneliness seeming only intensified by the
brilliant light and empty magnificence.

Livingstone felt like a man in a dream from which he could not awake. He
turned and made his way back to the outer door. As he did so he caught
sight of a single figure at the far end of one of the big rooms. It
looked like Wright,--the husband of Mrs. Wright to whom Livingstone had
sent his charity-subscription a few hours before. He had on his overcoat
and must have just come in. He was standing by the great fire-place
rubbing his hands with satisfaction. As Livingstone turned away, he
thought he heard his name called, but he dashed out into the night. He
could not stand Wright just then.

He plunged back through the snow and once more let himself in at his own
door. It was lonelier within than before. The hall was ghastly. The big
rooms, bigger than they had ever seemed, were like a desert. It was
intolerable: He would go to bed.

He slowly climbed the stairs. The great clock on the landing stared at
him as he passed and in deep tones tolled the hour--of ten. It was
impossible! Livingstone knew it must have been hours since he left his
office. To him it seemed months, years;--but his own watch marked the
same hour.

As he entered his bedroom, two pictures hanging on the wall caught his
eye. They were portraits of a gentleman and a l