consideration all your own, you have asked for less assistance than I
think I have given you:

One moonlight night several years afterward I was passing through
Union square. The hour was late and the square deserted. Certain
memories of the past naturally came into my mind as I came to the
spot where I had once witnessed that fateful assignation, and with
that unaccountable perversity which prompts us to dwell upon thoughts
of the most painful character I seated myself upon one of the benches
to indulge them. A man entered the square and came along the walk
toward me. His hands were clasped behind him, his head was bowed; he
seemed to observe nothing. As he approached the shadow in which I
sat I recognized him as the man whom I had seen meet Julia Margovan
years before at that spot. But he was terribly altered--gray, worn
and haggard. Dissipation and vice were in evidence in every look;
illness was no less apparent. His clothing was in disorder, his hair
fell across his forehead in a derangement which was at once uncanny
and picturesque. He looked fitter for restraint than liberty--the
restraint of a hospital.

With no defined purpose I rose and confronted him. He raised his
head and looked me full in the face. I have no words to describe the
ghastly change that came over his own; it was a look of unspeakable
terror--he thought himself eye to eye with a ghost. But he was a
courageous man. "Damn you, John Stevens!" he cried, and lifting his
trembling arm he dashed his fist feebly at my face and fell headlong
upon the gravel as I walked away.

Somebody found him there, stone-dead. Nothing more is known of him,
not even his name. To know of a man that he is dead should be