Oswald awakes early upon his first morning in New York. The significance of present surroundings dawns upon his mind. He is in the metropolis of that country about which so much had been written, told, and dreamed.

What vistas of destiny since that protest and affirmation received the sword's decisive arbitrament! With what sense of opportune occasion these two kindred nations are surely drawing toward that "modus vivendi," tentatively flexible, yet more potential, responsive, and insistent than treaty covenants, "triple alliances," or proscribed "spheres of influence."

But how capricious fate's fast-loose antics with individual destiny!

Not with complacent retrospect and cleared prospective does this intensely impressionable Englishman stand at the threshold of a new world's view.

That complex web remains intact, the dead lifts unavailing hands, justice is laggard, while the name of Langdon shrinks from pending odium.

Springing up, he soon descends to the hotel office. After breakfast he writes that promised letter. Not knowing anything of Sir Donald Randolph's present address or plans, Oswald writes him at Paris.

Being very curious as to the Lanier affair, and to avoid delay, he addresses copies to Calcutta and to Sir Donald's Northfield station. The letter is brief, announcing his safe arrival at New York, intention to remain until some report comes from Sir Donald, and explaining that similar copies will be mailed to each of places named. He would mail and receive all letters at the general postoffice. No reference is made to the Laniers, as he knows Sir Donald will not need such reminder.

That day Oswald remained at the hotel. The notes of a trained orchestra charmed his musical sense, while sight of superbly clad, richly bejeweled hotel guests was interesting diversion.

Next morning he dined at a restaurant near the corner of Thirty-third Street and Broadway. Taking an elevated Sixth Avenue car, he rides to Park Place, thence walking to the postoffice and mailing his three letters. This important move now made, he is ready for sight-seeing.

Standing by the statue of that young patriot whose life was so freely offered upon Freedom's altar, Oswald marveled at such unselfish infatuation as found voice in words:

"I regret that I have but one life to lose for my country."

Crossing to other side of Broadway, he narrowly escapes collision with an electric car. From the irritated conductor comes:

"Well, chump, you are just off of grass!"

This cheerful compliment is followed by another, more pointedly suggestive, from a wag who calls out:

"Indade yez a bloody jude from owld Loondin, but yez betther moind yer own way, or the polace will copper yez shoor!"

For a few moments the "modus vivendi" is much strained, but Oswald quickly recovers his self-control, and slowly strolls down street, pausing at St. Paul's Chapel.

Having read the chiseled memorial of that American officer who fell in attack upon Quebec, Oswald passes on, turning at Trinity Church into Wall Street.

When at the corner of Nassau, he stands for a few moments in front of the Sub-Treasury Building, looking up at the statue of America's first executive.

This heroic figure is fitting impersonation of successful revolt against oppressive exactions.

Oswald's sense of antithesis pictures in somber background that doomed spy hurried to his fate, and another swinging, strangling shape expiating through hangman's device the proven crime of "high treason."

Such diversions are not conducive to cheerful reverie. His spirits droop lower under the clammy handicap. Memory of those greetings from petulant conductor and guying wag again intrudes.

Oswald is nearly opposite the Custom-House when just before him that newsboy shrieks:

"All about the murder of a young girl! Body found in the river! Police on track of the murderer!"

Tragic memories of those eventful years, augmented by petty, suggestive, yet meaningless recent affronts, shaded by somber-hued reveries, congest about the center of Oswald's sensitive consciousness at the parrot-like yell of a child.

Thought that past concealments and identity known, he now is closely trailed by New York police for the crime of Paul Lanier rouses Oswald's fighting temper to fierce heat.

There is no doubt that under such momentary emotional pressure this guiltless fugitive then would have incurred homicidal accounting by resisting to the death any attempted arrest.

Little Jack's fright at that awful stare was natural.

The scared newsboy again resumes his stereotyped yell at corner of Nassau and Wall Streets.

Oswald had turned back, intending to procure a paper and learn about this reported murder. Returning to Trinity Church, he sees the boy, farther down on opposite side of Broadway, waiting pay for copy then so tenaciously gripped by that careful old financier, who had insisted upon assurance of positive "rigor mortis" as condition precedent to purchase.

Oswald starts across in direct line to where these are standing. At sight of Oswald, little Jack, speedily waiving payment, cuts across Broadway, down Exchange Alley, where he jostles reveries of that brass-buttoned official, and, through official duress, pilots him back to the street. Here Michael Patrick O'Brien hastily fits Jack's description of Oswald to that dazed old man, whom he pompously arrests and valiantly escorts toward "Old Slip" police station.

At a distance of a few rods, Oswald had watched the whole proceeding, and followed, curious to learn cause of the arrest.

Sight of that "willanous-lookin' rascal" still trailing him causes Jack to sidle over Broadway, and ignoring Michael's loud command, disappear at the next crossing.

Oswald concluded that there must be some mistake about this arrest. The man's conduct had appeared void of all criminal intent. The boy seemed to shun Oswald himself, through some unaccountable aversion. Probably the policeman's zeal had caused a serious blunder. The little fellow's strange scare, with hasty, ill-advised official action, resulted in arrest and possible detention of this harmless old gentleman.

Oswald paused to reflect. Why should he concern himself, in a strange land, about such an affair? This mistake soon would be righted. For Oswald to show any interest or make inquiries, might lead to complications. What if he should be required to testify? His real name, former home, and antecedents might be asked. These must be given or he would be committed for contempt. Better not to meddle with this matter.

Oswald boards a Broadway car and gets off at Thirty-third Street. Going to his room, he ponders over the incidents of that morning absence. Recollections of his conduct are not pleasant. The experiences were annoying, but only his own action seems blameworthy. In some way he was responsible for the circumstances leading to arrest of that feeble old man, yet made no explanation or protest. What an initiative in a new world was such selfish, unfeeling discretion! Why hope for exalted aid in his own troubles, while shirking opportunity to help the helpless?

Oswald left the hotel, returning to corner of Wall Street and Broadway. Inquiring of a shop-keeper, "Where are persons arrested in this neighborhood taken by the police?" he receives the answer:

"To police precinct station No. 2."

Going there, Oswald asks about an old man, that morning arrested on Broadway, near Trinity Church.

No such prisoner had been brought to that station.

He learns there will be a session of police court that afternoon at the new Criminal Court Building. The prisoner will be there for arraignment.

Oswald takes the elevated train to Franklin Street, goes over to this building, and awaits opening of that afternoon's session.

Looking about the court-room, he sees that same innocent-appearing old chap, still expostulating with his stern captor, who soothes him with the assurance:

"Yez will warble a different chune at Sing Sing!"

Oswald decides to await the court's action in this case before making any explanations. Possibly no interference may be necessary. He observes that the newsboy is not present.

For over two hours Oswald listens to the proceedings of this tribunal. The docket is cleared of many trivial cases, and more serious matters are sent to the Special or General Sessions.

All this seems strangely offhand and informal, but he reasons that such, being of daily occurrence, sentimental scruples are in natural abeyance.

Michael Patrick O'Brien is signaled by a court official, steps proudly forward, and makes an explanation of his morning's prowess.

With skeptical smile the magistrate looks at that felonious, would-be kidnaper of a juvenile innocent, and asks for the boy.

Michael explains little Jack's sprinting performance, adding:

"It was ivident, yer honner, that the skeert child feart that owld vilyun more than the noime of the law."

Just then an officer who had been on duty near the South Ferry stepped forward and cleared the situation.

"This old man is a peaceful, respected resident, living a little way from Battery Park. He has grown sons and daughters in the city. With a score of grandchildren making bedlam at his home, it is not likely he would steal a newsboy."

The old man looked both relieved and vexed. This unexpected intervention would help him out of trouble, but he preferred not being recognized in such a rÔle. At the station he had refused to tell his name or residence.

With a smile, the judge said:

"Turn your kidnapper loose!"

Escorted by the crestfallen Michael, he left, returning to the station for money and watch.

The last words Oswald heard from this diplomatic representative of New York man-catchers were:

"Indade yez in luck to have inflooenz! It was me own resarve that yez did not git the limits! If iver Oi nades a rickomindashun, yer noime will head the soobscripshun!"

Oswald learned that in the vicinity of this arrest, Broadway was the dividing line between police precincts Nos. 1 and 2. Having been arrested on the east side of Broadway, the old man was taken to precinct station No. 1, or "Old Slip."

Michael Patrick O'Brien was not a member of the regularly appointed city police force. He was a special, this being his initial exploit.

Oswald viewed numerous objects of interest while awaiting that letter from Sir Donald Randolph. Though aware that through uncertainty of Sir Donald's stay at any particular place there might be prolonged delay, he feels sure that when his letter is received, answer will be prompt.

Often is felt unutterable loneliness. There is nothing like immense crowds of strangers in a strange land to make individual segregation absolute.

At times only that image-something, somehow, from somewhere, reflected into recesses of his consciousness, avails against childish fretting and petulant protest. From outer or inner depths, occasionally come suggestive glimpses and assuring voices.

The first Sabbath after his arrival in New York Oswald attended church. Not since that Northfield visit had this son of a clergyman heard a sermon or prayer.

The familiar ritual of the Episcopal Church is not used, yet responsive chords vibrate to some mystic touch. The church is plain and music faulty. In pulpit utterances there is nothing strikingly trite or profound. The preacher has none of oratorical gifts. Oswald cannot account for his own interest. While those imperfectly sharped and flatted notes are sounding, he wonders if that peculiarly adjusted, harmonious Sense, quickening at scream of seagull or roar of ravenous beast, would not miss these poorly pitched tones more than Gabriel's highest or Creation's ever-echoing oratorio.

Listening to doctrinal directions as to ceremonial observances radically differing from other beliefs, Oswald thinks of the big-hearted Father, tenderly amused at zeal of His children in their many ways of seeking that coveted smile.

Despite these surroundings, the morning's moods had been so comfortable that in the evening Oswald attended services at one of New York's prominent churches, where he listened to grand music by a skillful choir, and a scholarly sermon from an able preacher.

But the emotional key ranged capriciously.

A good-looking assistant, in dictatorial tones, told the world's Helper what was expected. The choir sang well a hymn, the burden of which was expressed in oft-repeated phrase:

Oswald found himself wondering if there ever were any real need for such prayer. Loss of one such trusting, faithful soul would drape the stars in blackest bunting.

After the reading of scriptural selections, a slim, consumptive-looking youth, with a sympathetic, long-range voice, exquisitely sang a solo, the most effective part of which was:

From recollections of Bible accounts, Oswald thought Israel required frequent redemption, though that apostrophized by the impressive exclamation was neither exclusively nor peculiarly Semitic.

The preacher's theme was "Overcoming the World."

Though the subject was ably and eloquently treated, that listener found his ideas ranging at various angles to those of the speaker. It seemed so characteristic of venerable manhood to dwell on old heroes whose exploits impressed youthful fancy, so hard to canonize any person whom we had met and understood.

In commenting upon great deeds of famous men, the nearest approach to present times was the preacher's reference to George Washington.

During the week Oswald had been reading about conspicuous actors in the American Civil War, and still more recent history of the Republic. Martial dreams had been renewed. While those ancient notables were being paraded before that congregation, others more recent posed upon Oswald's "boards."

Tall, lank ghost, thy patient, kindly brow marred by assassin's lead! Mighty warrior shade, bearing upon thy tense, heroic face traces of Mount McGregor's pain! Thou from Atlanta march! Thou from Winchester ride! Thou from Mentor Mecca, thy glazing orbs lighting with boyhood's longing for ocean's trackless wave! And ye mighty hosts of marching and countermarching nineteenth-century worthies, witness bear to worth of your most thrilling times!

Still that sermon was very well prepared, and doubtless met the preacher's critical approval.

It ought not to be expected that this able divine gauge his expressed thoughts by fancies of an erratic youth under abnormal, emotional pressure.

Gazing at some of those richly attired communicants as in elegant carriages they were driven homeward, Oswald wondered if it were easy or hard for such to "overcome the world."

Though shunning the forming of any intimate friendships, Oswald longed for that sympathy which comes from human contact. Watching the exchanges of mutual good-will between many, he envied their freedom from his own restraints. At times even effusive flutterings of social butterflies seemed rational compared with such hampering reserve and forced discretion.

Oswald was an omnivorous reader, but never could restrain his interest to set pace of the author's art. In this haste many little touches of sentiment were overlooked, but strong points were quickly grasped and held by a tenacious memory. His waking hours were occupied mostly in sight-seeing and in this rapid process of book and paper assimilation.

As in his perusal of American military exploits, which revived boyish fancies tempered by maturing thought, so sentiments appealing to lapsed memories and living pictures that suggested even profiles or silhouettes of once familiar views took on new significance and transfigured tints.

The second Sunday after Oswald's arrival in New York he attended morning services at St. Thomas' Church, and afterward strolled over to Central Park. He is seated near the statue of Alexander Hamilton. While pondering over the tragic fate of this "great secretary," Oswald failed to notice an elegantly dressed gentleman who in passing stared inquiringly. Looking up, he sees a familiar face smiling in questioning surprise. Claude Leslie grasps Oswald's extended hand, and with many an ejaculated "Well!" leads him to the carriage.

During Oswald's reverie, Claude, in passing, caught a view of that handsome face which so often lighted with its fine expressions in Himalaya camp. The carriage stops, and Claude returns to confirm his impression. With offhand cordiality, Claude takes charge of this interesting friend.

Though Oswald feels some embarrassment and a little doubt as to the outcome, he can but rejoice at such welcome change. Fortunately Claude is alone in the carriage. Explanations need not be heard by others. Besides, Claude had shown respect for Oswald's reserve.

During their ride through the park they chat pleasantly about former experiences. Claude asks where his friend is stopping, and suggests that when convenient he would like to show him the sights. However, he will not intrude on Oswald's time, except when agreeable.

"I have all the time there is, but you may have your own plans."

That evening Oswald accepted an invitation to dine at his friend's elegant apartments. There were no other guests.

Claude learns that Oswald will not object to limited acquaintance with congenial people, and likes seeing objects of local interest.

They mingled quite freely with prominent male residents, and met not a few popular local celebrities of the gentler sex.

Though having no hint as to the nature of Oswald's troubles, Claude was most considerate. When shielding his friend from possible embarrassments, there was such apparent offhand frankness that for the time Oswald forgot former stresses. Even Claude's silences or evasive replies to questions about his friend's past life seemed casual inadvertence or preoccupation.

Claude Leslie had easy entrÉe to both business and social circles.

Oswald attributed gracious greetings and cordial welcomes to Claude's tact.

Doubtless he owed much to this source, but his own chastened manners, refined, brilliant conversation, suggestiveness of romantic interest, and good looks, were the most potent factors.

Among male acquaintances then formed were some prominent in business and politics. Oswald met young men who were social favorites in exclusive circles. Some of these soon afterward won robust renown at Las Guasimas and upon the slopes of San Juan.

Oswald's pensive reserve made him an interesting enigma to social belles. Claude jokingly remarked:

"It is evident that this Englishman is not seeking matrimonial alliance with any 'Gotham' heiress."

In explanation of his friend's occasional preoccupied, listless irresponsiveness, Claude said:

"Perhaps there is a continuing infatuation across the Atlantic."

One day Claude proposed that Oswald, as his guest, accompany him on a sight-seeing tour of the Western States. This was just what would have most pleased Oswald but for that expected letter from Sir Donald Randolph.

He every day looked for a reply. Oswald could not think of then leaving on a prolonged trip.

Expressing gratitude for the invitation, he declined, assigning his daily expectation of important news from England.

Claude excused Oswald, adding, in pleasant banter:

"I hope congratulations soon will be in order, but bring her to New York!"

To this Oswald responded with a sadly suggestive smile.

Next day, at the Grand Central Station, these friends parted.

Oswald greatly missed Claude Leslie's congenial society and contagious enthusiasm. That expressive face became familiar to general-delivery mail-clerks, who could tell the non-arrival of expected letter, yet carefully looked, for his better assurance.

In this extremity Oswald seeks the society of an Italian guide, who as protÉgÉ of Claude Leslie often piloted these friends through parts of "darker" New York.

From the first Oswald felt an interest in Marco Salvini. This grew with each meeting. Though much pleased, the guide often responded with looks of blank wonder. Claude Leslie had noted this capricious favor, but regarded it as an out-growth from Oswald's peculiar temperament, influenced by self-inflicted social reserve. But these marked attentions soon suggested to Claude a cause more significant. The guide's likeness to that bandit who died in Himalaya camp was most striking. It seemed that this sentimental Englishman yet felt compunction for that fatal shot.

After Claude's departure, Oswald's fancy again reverts to this Italian. Going to neighborhood of "Five-Points," he calls at proper number, but gets no information, except that Marco Salvini has been away two days. In front of "Five-Points House of Industry" he pauses to reflect.

A new sensation of dizziness is felt. Oswald braces against the brick wall, facing "Five-Points Mission." The bewildering faintness is brief, yet he still stands in reverie. In recent years much had been done for this formerly depraved neighborhood. His thoughts cross the sea to an embowered spot, near a beautiful lake, where one timidly and in faltering accents had announced her solemn consecration to like humble yet exalted ministry. In striking contrast appears a chafing, petulant suitor, privately protesting against such infatuation and indignantly railing at spiritual advisers. The sacrifice now seems more rational, and the advice kindly considerate. Was that modestly brilliant, sweetly fascinating girl engaged in her chosen mission?

Oswald recalls Claude Leslie's accounts of charitable deeds and gifts by benevolent persons in support of this beneficent work among the poor. How worthy of emulation the helpful ministries and charities of one Gotham heiress, proceeds of whose inherited millions are finding distribution in these and kindred lines!

Passing along Park Street to Mott intersection, Oswald meets the priest who officiates at the church near there.

That guide had spoken of this man, and Oswald thinks here is a possible chance to learn present whereabouts of Marco Salvini.

He is shocked to hear that two days before this Italian had been nearly crushed to death by a car collision, and is now at St. Vincent's.

Oswald loses no time in delay. Going promptly to the hospital, he is admitted to proper ward. Upon assurance of his friendship for the injured man, he is permitted to remain. For a week he watches, eating and sleeping little.

Oswald becomes ill, and is soon delirious. For a long time his strong will had braced against the insidious disease. The fever laid sure hold on that athletic frame, and its course was relentless.

Two days after Oswald was stricken, Marco Salvini died.

The continuous attentions of this quiet stranger at that Italian's cot had attracted the notice and won the regard of those in charge.

From this patient there were neither confidences nor complaints. During earlier deliriums utterances seemed held in check by that coercive will, but as the disease wasted vital energies speech became strikingly suggestive.

With some disregard to order of their occurrence, many tragic happenings were reËnacted during these delirious states.

Oswald is again at Northfield, along the lake, and upon the Thames. They are now on the road from Calcutta.

"What a dreary stretch! 'So foolish was I and ignorant!'"

The scene changes to Himalaya slope.

"Lie still, Karl! I will hit him hard!"

From another room come violin strains of "Ave Maria."

Opening his eyes with a start, they settle upon the crucifix pendent from the neck of the sweet-faced nun.

"Poor fellow! I shot too straight!"

Again he gazes on that sacred symbol.

"'Thou that takest away—takest away—away the sin of the world'—his sin, poor fellow! Mine too!"

Staring at his upturned palm lying on the spread, he exclaims:

"See that mark? It's blood! I shot too straight."

Higher rise the notes of the violin.

Rapturously those grand eyes turn toward the ceiling.

"Look! look! Wild flowers arch the mountains! See the graves, Karl! The clouds drop wreaths!"

There is another quiet lapse, then the patient tosses feverishly. The weeping nun says:

"He is making a hard fight!"

In startling response comes:

His view seems dazzled by the lights, and the good priest suggests that his eyes be shaded.

For a while Oswald seems quietly sleeping, then in confused accents mutters, and starting up, calls out:

These quotations fall upon the ears of priest and Sister of Charity with awfully solemn accents. They feel in presence of double mystery of life and death.

There is now naught to break the impressive silence but ticking of a clock and distant rumble of the elevated trains. No word had been uttered by this patient giving any clew to his religious training. The friend at whose cot this stranger so faithfully watched was a professed believer. Too, those fixed glances at the crucifix and solemn utterances suggested belief in the "atoning merits." Priest and nun exchange inquiring looks, then intently gaze at that quiet sleeper.

Oswald stirs, opens his eyes, tosses feebly, and in low tones says:

"A squall! They reef the sails! A typhoon!"

After brief pause he whispers audibly:

"Dark! So dark!" Then exclaims:

"The star! the star! Mother!"

Somewhere in pulsing zone, circling this vexed human state, there is commotion. Rock-posing Barjona, think not to question this outgoing! At sight of inverted spike-prints echoes not yet that morning crowing in old Jerusalem?

Faster than light, swifter than sweep of angelic herald, quicker than aught else than Infinite quickening at human prayer, speeds the mystery of motherhood.

Gently ministering to most intricate throbbings of that suspended spirit consciousness, as her own had dominated embryo pulsings pending expectant miracle of birth, each disordered beat is soothed to rest. Who may more than hint those voices, sounding not above the din of life—whisperings to That, not always checked by vesturing clay nor indexed by crude registers of flesh?

Oswald lay long in this still sleep. The fevered crisis past, he slowly returns to conscious memory. There seems no curiosity as to future plans. When there is but slight danger of relapse, the nun who had been present at critical stage asks his name, and suggests that he may desire his mail brought to the hospital. This seems proper. It soon arrives. There is only one letter, but this bears a suggestive postmark. Its contents electrify Oswald, who hardly can restrain his joy. His impulse is to confide the good news to that kind-hearted sister who stands smiling at this handsome patient. Oswald checks his feelings and remarks:

"It is only good news from England, sister!"

The nun now learns that Oswald's home is near London, and that he has been away for years.

The rigid reserve relaxes, and he talks freely, yet saying nothing about causes for such absence. Recovery is now rapid. The letter arrived in New York about three weeks before its delivery at the hospital.

Not knowing anything about Oswald's past life or name, there had been no call for his mail.

As he would not be able to take the sea voyage for several days, a letter is sent, addressed to Sir Donald Randolph, stating the reasons for delay in receiving and answering, with expectation of being able to start homeward within two weeks. This had been dictated to an obliging nurse.

The now happy convalescent hardly can suppress within discreet bounds his longing for speedy return. Within three weeks from this date Oswald Langdon is aboard ship, booked for Southampton.