Like a thin, torn wrack of cloud scurrying across the night sky; like music so far away that the instrument and the air were alike unrecognisable; like an underexposed photograph; like the kiss of wind such were Evan’s vague impressions. “What existence is this?” he asked himself. Consciousness was sweet and he was afraid to question it for fear of slipping back into nothingness. He lay exulting in his sensations.

As these sensations became stronger the questioning spirit would not be denied. “I breathe,” he thought. “I feel my breast rise. Therefore I have a body. I hear a sound like the stirring of a breeze among leaves, and another sound, a strange, faint hum. And I see, though I am surrounded by darkness. It is night and out-of-doors.”

The feeling of having awakened in a new existence wore off. He accepted that which surrounded him as the same old world. He found that he was lying on a soft bed of leaves in a wood. He was wrapped in a bed covering, a cotton coverlet in fact. He did not recognise it. He instinctively felt about for his hat and found it near. He stood erect, and found that his legs were able to perform their office. He started to walk blindly through the wood. There were no stars.

A certain part of his brain had stopped working. It was that part which reasoned from memory. He remembered nothing. He did things without knowing why he did them. He came to a road; he knew it was a road, and knew what roads were for. He followed it. He was dimly conscious that he was not in a normal condition, but the fact did not distress him: on the contrary he experienced a fine lightness of spirit; it was enough for him that the blood was stirring in his veins, and the night air was cool and sweet.

Presently he heard a whirring sound familiar to his senses, and saw the oscillating reflection of a bright light around a bend in the road; an automobile. He hastily dived into the underbrush at the side. He had no reason to be afraid, but he felt a shivering repugnance to showing himself to his fellow-creatures in his present state.

When the car had passed he returned to the road. A few paces further on the trees at his right hand opened up, and a wonderful panorama was spread before him; a great, dark, gleaming river far below, and on the other side myriads upon myriads of fairy-like white lights like fireflies arrested in mid-flight. From this direction came the faint hum he had remarked.

Evan knew instinctively that this was the city, and that he must get there. He saw further that he was bound in the wrong direction. The way he was heading the lights were thinning out; the thickest clusters were behind him. His instinct further told him that where the lights were thick he would find a means of crossing the river. So he retraced his steps.

Bye and bye houses began to rise alongside the road, all dark-windowed and still. “It is very late,” thought Evan. Finally the road came to an end at the gates of a ferry-house. Evan automatically produced a coin to pay his fare, and passed on board the boat. There were but few passengers. He gave them a wide berth.

Reaching the other shore he started walking towards the centre of the city. Coming to a place where trains of cars passed to and fro on a trestle overhead, he climbed a flight of steps to a station, and producing another coin, took a seat in the first train that came. He was perfectly able to see, to hear, to read the advertising cards in the train, but it was all new and inexplicable to him. Some power outside of his consciousness was directing his steps. In the brightly-lighted car he shivered under the gaze of his fellow-passengers, but nobody paid him any special regard.

At a certain station something stirred his feet, and they bore him off the train, down the steps and through certain streets to a certain door facing upon a little Park. Fronted by this door his hand dived into his pocket and brought forth a key which opened it. Like a sleep-walker he mounted to the top of the house and entered a room there. Something in the aspect of this room caused a deep sigh of satisfaction to escape him; he knew where everything was without lighting the gas. Undressing and climbing into bed he fell into a dreamless sleep.

He was awakened by a pillow flung at his head. He beheld a grinning, sharp-featured face under a shock of lank, molasses-candy-coloured hair, a face as dear and familiar to him as the room, and he knew that the owner of it was called Charley.

“Aren’t you going to get up to-day?”

“Go to Hell!” said Evan, grinning back. Oh but the sight of his friend was good to his eyes! Something real, something familiar, something that identified this poor wandering soul and gave it a locus.

“You must have made a night of it,” remarked Charley.

Some deep instinct still bade Evan to conceal his condition. “What’s for breakfast?” he cried, jumping up.

“Same old stunt! Beggs and acon.”

“Gee! I’m as hungry as a hunter. Break me three Humpty-dumpties and fry them sunny side up.”

Charley perceived nothing amiss. Breakfast was partaken of to the accompaniment of the usual airy persiflage. Evan knew very well that Charley could supply the clues to his lost identity, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask him directly. He kept his ears open for any chance remarks that might throw light on the matter, but Charley’s style was so flowery he didn’t get much. Charley finally departed on some errand of his own.

Left alone, Evan went about his room, touching the familiar objects, looking into everything, trying to fill in that blank space in his mind. As soon as he saw the paraphernalia he knew he was a painter. His pictures interested him greatly. He knew they were his own pictures, but he had lost all sense of kinship with them. In a way it was a great advantage; he brought a fresh point of view to bear.

“I see what’s the matter with them,” he said to himself. “You have been trying to convey the inner spirit of things without being sufficiently sure of their outward form. What you’ve got to do is to study the outsides of things further, and invite the spirit to express itself.”

So interested was he that he put a fresh canvas on his easel on the spot, and started to paint. Any object would serve to prove his new theory; their brown pitcher with a broken spout and a green bowl beside it on the table. An hour passed without his noticing its flight.

Charley returned.

“Hello!” he said. “Had another row with your old man?”

“Old man!” thought Evan. “Oh, nothing much,” he said aloud.

“Well, I must say you take your job pretty lightly,” said Charley.

Evan thought: “So I have a job.”

Charley went on: “There was a story in the paper this morning about one of your lot. I brought it in. Sounds fishy.”

Evan pricked up his ears.

Charley read: “A reporter assigned to police headquarters happened to see Inspector Durdan, chief of the Detective Bureau, and five plain clothes men climbing into a covered motor van on Mulberry street yesterday, and scenting a good story, followed in a taxi-cab. Naturally the Inspector does not personally take part except in raids of some importance. The chase led to N Van Dorn street. Van Dorn is an obscure little street on the far West side. An agitated individual was discovered on the steps of this house whom the reporter recognised as Mr. George Deaves, son of the multi-millionaire. He cried out to the police: ‘He’s gone in! He’s gone in!’ The police forced their way into the house. One was left at the door, and the reporter was not allowed to enter. Through the open door he saw other police inside, who must have entered from the back. They were searching the house. One called down-stairs: ’They’ve gone over the roofs towards MacDougall street,’ whereupon several of the police started to run down the block to the corner of MacDougall and the reporter followed. He was just in time to see two men issue from a tenement house carrying what looked like the corpse of a third between them. The body was wrapped in an old cotton comforter. They threw it in a waiting taxi and made a getaway though the police fired in the air, and ordered them to stop. At police headquarters all information was refused. At Mr. Deaves’ residence word was sent out that Mr. Deaves had not been out that morning. The woman who keeps the Van Dorn street house, a Mrs. Patten, either would not or could not tell what had happened.”

At this point in the story Charley looked up to see how Evan was taking it. Seeing Evan’s expression he forgot to read the rest. Evan was staring into vacancy as if he saw a ghost. As a matter of fact complete recollection had returned in a great flash, and the reaction was dizzying. His first conscious act was to feel of his temple. It was whole.

“What’s the matter with you?” cried Charley.

“I I was that corpse,” stammered Evan.

“Have you gone crazy?”

“Here, I’ve got to see about this!” cried Evan, and seizing his hat he ran out.

Evan took a taxi-cab to the Deaves house. He took out his pocket book to pay the driver. It was the first time he had used it. The money in it was intact, but something had been added, a little note. Evan read it while the driver made change.

“You’ve got good pluck. When the pistol missed fire we decided to let you off. Take warning. Keep away from the Deaves outfit or next time you’ll get a ball.”

Evan thought: “The pistol did not miss fire. It was loaded with a blank. The whole scene was staged just to break my nerve. I passed out temporarily just as a result of self-suggestion. Lord! what a weak-minded fool I was! But by God! I’ll get square with them! This is how I answer their threat!”

He glared around him defiantly, hoping he was watched, and rang the bell of the Deaves house.

The servant who opened the door looked at him queerly. This successor to Alfred was more respectful, but Evan did not trust him much further. “Where is Mr. George Deaves?” asked Evan.

“I don’t think you can see him just now, sir,” was the answer. “He’s up-stairs.”

“And Mr. Simeon Deaves?”

“He’s in the library, I believe.”

“I’ll go up there.”

As they got further into the house shrill cries, muffled by several doors, reached Evan’s ears.

“What’s that?” he asked startled.

“Mrs. Deaves, sir,” said the man demurely.

“What’s the matter with her?”

“Hysterics, I believe, sir.”

“Ah!” said Evan.

He found Simeon Deaves in the library. The old man greeted him with the unvarying sly grin. There was something inhuman about that grin. Nothing could move the old man much save the threatened loss of money.

“So you got here,” he said with cheerful indifference. “George told me they carried you off. How did you get clear?”

Evan told him briefly what had happened keeping certain details to himself.

“Pooh! Sounds like a melodrama!” said the old man. “Don’t believe a word of it!”

Evan, well-used to his ways by now, simply shrugged.

“There’s the devil to pay here this morning,” the old man went on, grinning like a mischievous boy at others’ misfortunes. “Maud got a letter from them, and went into hysterics.” He pointed up-stairs and laughed his noiseless laugh. “Hear her? George is up there slapping her hands and begging her to come to, and he’ll pay the money. That’s no way to treat hysterics. George is a fool.”

Evan heard a heavy step on the stairs. “Here he comes,” he said.

The old man notwithstanding his expressed contempt for his son was not anxious to face him. “Well, well, I’ve got to go down-stairs,” he said, shuffling rapidly out by the small door.

George Deaves entered. Evan could not but feel sorry for him, absurd figure though he was. He looked as if his backbone had lost its pith; he sagged. His necktie was awry, and his hair hung dankly over his forehead, his mouth hung open; he looked like a man nauseated with perplexity.

“So you’re here,” he said to Evan, not any more concerned about his fate than his father had been.

Evan repeated his brief tale. George Deaves made no comment; scarcely seemed to listen to it in fact.

Evan said: “I suppose the police are looking for me?”

Deaves nodded.

“Then I had better report to them?”

This partly roused Deaves from his apathy. “Leave that to me,” he said. “I will see that they are told what is necessary. I don’t want any more fuss.”

“Mr. Simeon Deaves tells me another letter has been received this morning.”

“I can’t discuss that with you,” said George Deaves stiffly.

Evan’s eyebrows went up. “Indeed!” he said.

The weak man could not face out Evan’s indignant stare. “Oh, I don’t blame you,” he mumbled. “But I’m sorry I listened to you yesterday. Mrs. Deaves is heartbroken at what she considers my deception.”

Evan reflected grimly that a broken heart does not customarily take itself out in hysterics, but he kept the reflection to himself.

“You will have to go,” said George Deaves.

Suddenly a hurricane blew into the room in the person of Maud Deaves with her hair and kimono flying. The innocent Evan stood aghast at the terrible secrets of the boudoir that were revealed. The magnificent Mrs. Deaves was reduced by rage to the level of a furious fish-wife, but lower, for no fish-wife ever so far neglects self-interest in her rage. Mrs. Deaves’ face was splotched and livid; unbridled passion had added fifteen years. She addressed her husband with a ridiculous assumption of calmness.

“They told me this person was here. I came down to see that you did your duty! This clever rascal has twisted you about his finger once too often for me!”

Evan flushed up. “Are you referring to me?”

“Yes I am!” she cried. “You’ve been a nuisance in the house from the first with your officious meddling! You take too much on yourself! You forget your place!”

“Good Heavens, madam, I didn’t write the story about your marriage!” said Evan with meaning.

It never reached her. In the fury she had worked up, she had conveniently forgotten that she had written it herself. “Don’t answer me back!” she cried, beside herself. “I don’t know whether you did or not. I don’t know whether you’re more a rascal or a fool! But I know we’re done with you. You’re discharged, do you understand? You can go!”

Evan stared at her in frank amazement. Then he laughed. He was sorely tempted to tell what he knew, but when he looked at the crushed figure at the desk, he hadn’t the heart. He wasn’t going to take his dismissal from her, though.

“Mr. Deaves, do you wish me to go?” he asked.

George Deaves nodded.

“Very well,” said Evan. “It suits me!” He bowed ironically to each of them, and left the room.

In the lower hall on his way out he was arrested by a cautious “Sst! Sst!” The old man appeared from around a corner. With many a furtive look over his shoulder, he pulled Evan into the small reception room off the hall.

“Did they fire you?” he asked.

“They did,” said Evan grimly.

“Well, well, well!” said the old man with that unalterable grin. “You’re a good boy too! I always said so! But what can anybody do with a wilful woman! So we’ve had our last walk together, eh?”

He really seemed to be sorry. So was Evan. In spite of all, Simeon Deaves was a funny old cuss. “Our last walk!” said Evan.

“But of course you’re not worth what George pays you,” he added, quickly. “Nothing like! Nothing like!”

The old fellow was incorrigible. Evan laughed. “Well, good-bye,” he said without any hard feeling.

“Wait a minute. Say, I hate to think of those blackguards getting away with the money after all.”

“So do I,” said Evan quickly.

“Why don’t you go after them yourself?”

“Where is the money to be sent to-day?”

“To the library.”

“Do you remember what book was mentioned?”

“Yes. ‘Carlyle’s Essays,’ Riverside edition.”

“Well, maybe I will,” said Evan. “I owe them something on my own account.”

“That’s right! That’s right. If you land those rascals behind the bars, I’ll mention you in my will.”

“That’s kind of you,” said Evan dryly.

Evan didn’t care to show his eagerness to the old man, but as a matter of fact his heart jumped at the suggested chance of getting back at the gang. He could hardly hope to do anything at the library in his own person, but Charley’s assistance might be enlisted. Evan hastened home to get him.

An hour later Evan and Charley called upon the librarian who had assisted Evan and George Deaves on the former occasion. In the meantime Charley had been told the story of the previous night’s happenings, and he was eager to take a hand in the game.

Evan said to the librarian: “Mr. Deaves received another demand for money this morning.”

The librarian naturally assumed that Evan was still in his employ, and it was not necessary for Evan to lie in that connection.

A similar arrangement to the previous one was made. An inquiry revealed the fact that “Carlyle’s Essays” had just been returned to the shelves. They were brought to the librarian’s office, and Evan found that the bills were indeed in volume one. He marked them and the books were returned with instructions that they were to be notified when they were again called for. Evan and Charley waited.

They were called for in an hour, and from the same seat in the reading-room as on the former occasion, number 433. Charley and the librarian departed for the reading-room. Charley’s instructions were to make very sure that the bills were actually abstracted from the book, and then to apprehend the man who took them without waiting for him to get out of the building, and to call on any of the library attendants for assistance if need be. Meanwhile Evan waited in the librarian’s office, prepared to take a hand when the alarm was raised.

But no alarm was raised. Evan waited half an hour in the keenest impatience and then the librarian returned alone.

“What happened?” demanded Evan.

“Nothing as yet,” was the answer. “I took your friend around through the American History room, just as I took you that day, and explained to him the location of seat 433. Since there was no danger of his being recognised he went right into the reading-room and took a seat at the same table. I scarcely liked to show myself, so I waited in the adjoining room. I had an attendant there in case he needed help.

“But we heard no sound, and when I finally looked into the reading-room I saw that your friend had gone, and that seat number 433 was also empty. The Carlyle books were lying on the table. The money had been taken. So I came back here to tell you.”

Evan was anxious and perplexed. “I don’t understand what could have happened,” he said. “If the crook got away in spite of Charley, why didn’t he come back here to report?”

“Perhaps he’s still on his trail.”

“But he was told not to let him get out of the building. There’s nothing for me to do I suppose, but wait here.”

Evan waited in the librarian’s office until after lunch, but Charley neither came back nor sent any word. By the end of that time Evan, divided between anger and anxiety, was in a fever. He decided to make a trip home.

By the time he reached Washington Square anxiety had the upper hand. The gang must have got the better of Charley he told himself, or he would have had some word. Evan had had experience of the desperate lengths to which they were prepared to go. Would they now put their final threat into execution upon his hapless friend? Evan blamed himself bitterly for having sent Charley into danger. “If I do not hear from him during the afternoon, I’ll send out a general alarm at police headquarters,” he thought.

When Evan opened the door of 45A, Miss Sisson, according to her custom, stuck her head out into the hall.

“I suppose you haven’t seen Mr. Straiker,” said Evan.

“Yes, I have,” she answered. “He came in about lunch time.”

“What!” said Evan staring.

“He came in and packed his trunk and took it away in a taxi-cab. Said he was going away for a few days. Wouldn’t tell me where he was going. Seemed funny to me he wanted his trunk if it was only a few days, but of course I couldn’t object for his rent is paid up and he left his furniture anyway, though that wouldn’t bring much. I will say he acted funny though, to an old friend like me. Wouldn’t give me any information.”

Evan stared at the woman as if he thought she had suddenly lost her mind. Then without a word he ran up the three flights of stairs. A glance in Charley’s room confirmed what she had told him. Things were thrown about in the wildest confusion. But all Charley’s clothes were gone, as well as all the personal belongings that he treasured.

Evan never gave a thought to the five thousand dollars; what cut him to the quick was the suggestion that his friend had betrayed him. There is nothing bitterer.

“I needn’t have been so anxious about him,” thought grimly. “This is more like treachery!”