ships or the back lanes of Mangadone might swallow a thousand Absaloms
and make no difference to the Bank, and therefore none to Craven Joicey.

Absalom, that shadow of the night, had gone to heaven or hell, and left
no bills behind, and it is by bills that some men's memories are
recorded. He was only another grain of red dust blown about by the wind
of Fate, and though the Rector of St. Jude's might consider that, having
been marked by the sign of the Cross, he was in some way different from
the rest, neither Craven Joicey nor Clarice Wilder could be expected to
take very much heed of the fact.

All stories of disappearance, from time immemorial, have held interest,
and everyone has known of some case which has never been explained or
accounted for. Someone who got into a cab and never appeared again, and
left the impression that he had driven over the edge of the world into
space, for the cab, the cab driver, the horse, the vehicle and the
passenger inside were lost from that moment; someone who went for a
bicycle ride in England, and was found later selling old clothes in
Chicago; someone who went away by train, someone who went away by boat;
the world is full of instances, and they are always tinged with the
greatest mystery of all mysteries, because they foreshadow the ultimate
mystery that awaits the soul of man. For this universal reason, it
might be concluded that Joicey might listen with attention to the story
of Absalom, though his lowly station and his total lack of the most
necessary form of balance, very naturally made him merely a black cypher
of no special account in the eyes of a man of figures.

Certainly Craven Joicey had not worn well. Hartley noticed it as he
stood taking off his scarf in the hall, and he noticed it again as the
Banker sat sipping a sherry and bitters under the strong light of the