it was just a plain unpretentious flat in new york, the kind that is rented for about $40 a month. you know the style—four or five rooms and bath and a narrow little space which is dignified by the name of private hall, and which is supposed to be the real thing in living apartments. it was furnished in the way in which anyone would expect, and an auction sale wouldn’t net more than $50 for everything that was there.

in the front room sat a man who wasn’t as old as he looked, but whose apparent age was caused by ten hours a day in an attempt to make a living for himself. for twenty years he had been ground down by fate, and at the end of it all he had nothing, and he was in debt to the world for exactly three score of years.

now at the last mile post he had come face to face with a tragedy.

in one calloused hand he held a telegram. in the other was the photograph of a girl—good looking in a way, saucy, blue-eyed and blonde. it had been taken in theatrical costume and that told half of the story. the other half was in the telegram.