From the Forty-second Street Station the "new departure" of many
a life has begun, the radial lines often curving downward into the
sheer depths of ruin of the Morgue, or the darkened abysses of the
Tenderloin.

Alas! That no angel with a flaming sword stands ready to warn away
the helpless from the gates which close behind the unwary with a
deadly clang.

Randall Clayton drew back as a stalwart traveler jostled him, only
to spring forward in the ardor of mutual recognition.

"Jack Witherspoon, by all the gods," cried the delighted New
Yorker. "What brings you here?"

"The Chicago Limited, my boy!" coolly answered the jovial Westerner
as he dragged his friend back into the cafe. "I do confess the need
of an 'eye-opener' after my meal of cinders."

In ten minutes Clayton knew all the salient facts of Jack's career.

Their lives had diverged at the college gates, and the bustling
Witherspoon, now the lawyer of a great Michigan railway company,
was on his way to Europe for a six-months' tour.

Clayton's spirits vastly rose in their reminiscent chat, and, in
ten minutes, the two ex-collegians were on their way to Clayton's
apartment. Members of the same fraternity, it was natural that
Witherspoon should gladly accept the offered hospitality of his
old-time comrade,