boarding-house, and the shifting life of New York had passed its
rapid sponge over every trace of their obscure little history.
Even the optimistic McCarren seemed to acknowledge the
hopelessness of seeking for proof in that direction.

"And there's the third door slammed in our faces." He shut his
note-book, and throwing back his head, rested his bright
inquisitive eyes on Granice's furrowed face.

"Look here, Mr. Granice--you see the weak spot, don't you?"

The other made a despairing motion. "I see so many!"

"Yes: but the one that weakens all the others. Why the deuce do
you want this thing known? Why do you want to put your head into
the noose?"

Granice looked at him hopelessly, trying to take the measure of
his quick light irreverent mind. No one so full of a cheerful
animal life would believe in the craving for death as a
sufficient motive; and Granice racked his brain for one more
convincing. But suddenly he saw the reporter's face soften, and
melt to a naive sentimentalism.

"Mr. Granice--has the memory of it always haunted you?"

Granice stared a moment, and then leapt at the opening. "That's
it--the memory of it . . . always . . ."

McCarren nodded vehemently. "Dogged your steps, eh? Wouldn't