Chatham Square, the reek of whiskey spilled with the breath of obscene, filthy lips—the little village that he could see beyond him, the tiny curls of blue smoke rising like the incense from an altar over the roofs of houses whose doors had no locks, whose windows were not barred, whereplain, homely folk, unsullied, lived at peace with God and the world; the closed areaways of the Bowery, the creaking stairs, the dim hallways leading to dens of vileness and iniquity where, safe by bolts from interruption, crime bred its offsprings and vice was hatched. What did it mean!
And so he stood there for a little space; then presently he started forward again; and presently he reached the village street, walked down its length, greeted from every doorway with hearty, unaffected sincerity, and after a little while he came to the hotel, and to his room—and there he locked the door.
Helena was straight—the words were repeating themselves over and over in his brain. He began to pace up and down the room. The words seemed to take form and shape in fiery red letters, being scrawled by invisible hands upon the walls—Helena was straight. Straight with Thornton, straight with any man—straight with her Maker. He knew that now—he had read it as a soul-truth in those brave, deep, tear-dimmed eyes. And he had lost her! It seemed as though he had become suddenly conscious that he was enduring some agony that was never to know an
