"I do all I can," said the legless man simply; "I can't find time for
everything."

The unshaven man shifted uneasily on his shabby feet. In his stomach the
flames which only alcohol can quench were burning with a steady gnawing
fury. "How about a little drink?" he said.

"Fifteen down," said the legless man; "ten when the job's done, and a
ticket to Chicago."

"With a reservation? I'll feel like the devil; I couldn't sit up all
night."

"I'll throw in an upper," said the legless man.

Still the unshaven man resisted. "What's Fanny done to you?"

"None of your business."

As if that settled the matter, and removed all obstacles and moral
scruples, the unshaven man sighed, and held out his hand for the money
which was to bind the contract.

Twelve hours later, Fanny McIver's death was being attributed by the
authorities to the insane, jealous rage of a lover. But as she had
lately changed her name and address, she lay for a while in the morgue
awaiting identification. It was the legless beggar who performed that
last solemn rite. He was quite unmoved. Her death mattered no more in
his scheme of life than the death of a fly.