"I must be guided by my conscience and my God," he said professionally,
and I noted a more reverent intonation given to the former than to the
latter. A bad sign.

"Isabel Munn's daughter, Bartholomew," I reminded him.

Instead of replying he staggered out of the door. Through the window we
saw him, a moment later, posting down the street, bareheaded and
stony-eyed, like one spurred by tormenting thoughts.

"Will he do it, do you think?" queried the anxious-visaged Mr. Hines.

I shook my head in doubt. With a man like Bartholomew Storrs, one can
never tell.

Old memories are restless companions for the old. So I found them that
night. But there is balm for sleeplessness in the leafy quiet of Our
Square. I went out to my bench, seeking it, and found an occupant
already there.

"We ain't the only ones that need a jab of dope, Dominie," said Mr.
Hines, hard and pink and hoarsely confidential as when I first saw him.

"No? Who else?" Though I suspected, of course.

"Old Gloom. He's over in the Acre."

"Did you meet him there? What did he say?"

"I ducked him. He never saw me. He was--well, I guess he was praying,"