She meets the eyes of the officer.

A patrol wagon clangs and clamors down State street. It will stop
before the door.

Officers enter from the patrol wagon. "Where is that suicide?" they
ask in a low voice, seeing a bride.

The officer in charge steps to the side of the bride. He speaks
tenderly--the tenderness of a rough man with a kind heart. "Madam," he
says, "you can go behind the partition and see the body. No one will
come in for a few moments."

The bride rises. She hurries toward the little room where Robert
Chalmers suffered and died.

"Oh, David!" she cries. "Oh, David! Oh, God!"

"I guess we will not need the wagon," the officers say among
themselves, and step out on the sidewalk.

The little clock behind the partition strikes 6.

A dozen factory whistles set up their dismal concert out in the blue
mist.


THE END.