tells him he may expect several thousand dollars.

Is it wise to return to New York? Yes. A situation awaits him there.
He can protect his rights as a depositor. He can enjoy the pleasant
apartments at Gramercy Park.

But the expense! Ah! yes, he must take cheaper quarters. It is the
first act of despotism which poverty has ever ventured to impose on
David Lockwin.

It makes New York seem inhospitable. It makes Chicago seem like home.
Still, as David Lockwin seeks his hotel, noting always the complete
solitude in which he dwells among the vast crowds that once knew him
familiarly or by sight, it chills him to the marrow.

He enters the hotel dining-room. The head waiter seats his guest at a
table where three men are eating. Every one of them is a business
acquaintance of Lockwin.

The excitement of the moment drives away the brain terrors which were
entering the man's head. The men regard the newcomer with that look
which is given to an uninvited banqueter whose appearance is not
imposing. The best-natured of the group, however, breaks the silence.
He speaks to the diner on his left.

"Where did you get the stone for that sarcophagus you put up yesterday?"

"In Vermont."

"Who ordered the job--Lockwin or the widow?"