slow process of contamination, a single rock rising above the
sordid tide.

The coach stopped before one of the most pretentious of the old-
time houses-now, alas! one of the dirtiest and most dilapidated. We
were directed to the upper story, Indiman leading the way.

A single attic chamber, bearing the marks of the cruelest poverty,
a stove, an artist's easel, a pallet spread directly on the grimy
floor, and upon it a man in the last stage of consumption. He
glanced up at Indiman and waved his hand feebly. He tried to speak,
but his voice died away in his throat; Indiman knelt by his side to
catch the words.

"It is cold--shut stove door--there's enough now to last me out."

Indiman went to the stove, where a little fire was smouldering; he
shut the door and turned on the draught. The flame leaped up
instantly, the crazy smoke-pipe rattling as it expanded under the
influence of the heat. Indiman turned again to the dying man.

"You know well enough why I have come," he said, slowly. "I have in
my possession one of your copies of the 'Red Duchess.' Tell me the
truth."

There was no audible response from the bloodless lips, but the dark
eyes were full of ironic laughter. Then they closed again.

"Richmond!" said Indiman, sharply. "Richmond!"