Two years later, of a sunny morning in April, the carriage of Hyman Groll transported him to the familiar street where the Jefferson Market Court casts the shadow of its crushing tyranny over the little meannesses of the opposite row of lawyers' offices. The carriage according to orders drew up near the entrance from which presently the court at the close of the morning session would issue, while Groll, with a glance at his watch, leaned from the window, as though expecting again to see the glass window with its gilt display:

Hyman Groll and Alonzo Bofinger

Attorneys at Law.

On the threshold of putting into operation his vast scheme for controlling the tribute on vice throughout the city, he had arrived at last to that knowledge of human destinies which even in men of the most practical sense must awaken a power of imagination, if only it begins with self-contemplation. The sordid street filled him with horror. In the grubbing days he had never flinched in the confidence of his destiny. To-day he shuddered at the memory of his former faith, trembling for a quick moment at the possibilities which had never daunted his stubborn beginnings,—an emotion the more poignant now that he looked back over the yawning chasm. He frowned, stiffened and withdrew into the back of the carriage so as to be concealed from the sidewalk.

At this moment the doors opened and the steps were covered with the outflow of the court. With pursed lips he followed the crowd. Some he knew of person—all by intuition;—the crooks, the flashy women, the sleek swindlers come to study the ways of the new magistrate and the pleas that avail. The shabby and the tawdry misery dwindled away. Several policemen hurried away to luncheon; a late clerk scurried off. Then after an interval Alonzo Bofinger, guffawing with two reporters, slouched down the steps and hung himself over the railing, giving and taking banter with that false laughter which is fanned only from the lungs.

Of the once flashing dandy nought remained, not even the bloom of the amazing vests. He had grown quite puffy in the throat and the legs and under the bulbous waistcoat, quite lumpy and neglectful of his dress. The creases were no longer defined in the trousers, while over the shoulders the wrinkles ran with impunity.

The reporters rolled away arm in arm. The laughter faded from Alonzo Bofinger's face and it seemed suddenly to age. He drew a cigar and eyed it in indecision before fumbling in the shabby pockets. Finding no match, he started to pocket the cigar, changed his mind, placed it languidly in his mouth, shoved back his hat and stared on the sidewalk in heavy lassitude.

Hyman Groll, opening the door of the carriage, called energetically:

"Alonzo—eh, Alonzo!"

At the sight of his old partner Bofinger started up with a flush of embarrassment which disappeared in the precipitate obsequiousness with which he hastened to the carriage.

"You were waiting for some one?" Groll said with a slight, amicable nod. "Never mind, jump in."

Bofinger complied quickly, concealing the cheap cigar in his pocket with a sly movement Groll did not fail to perceive. The carriage rolled away.

Without preliminaries Groll said:

"Bo, Sheila's dead."

Bofinger dropped the hand he was raising to his collar, shifted in his seat and said faintly:

"When?"

"Last night."

"Where?"

"Bellevue."

"Here!"

"Yes."

"Were there—"

"You're all right, there were no debts."

"I wouldn't have paid them," he said, in his agitation drawing out the cigar from his pocket.

"You lost track of her after the night you turned her out?" Groll said, offering him a light.

Bofinger frowned, shrugged his shoulders and leaned towards the window.

"And didn't care to—I understand. Well, she was picked up the next morning half frozen," Groll said, glancing at him, "out of her head,—two months at the Charities. After that she got a place in a traveling circus. She hung on as long as she could. She died of quick consumption."

His companion, who had gradually turned towards him, frowned in perplexity and asked:

"How do you know?"

"I was interested in the case," Groll answered carefully. "And Fargus, do you know what became of him?"

Bofinger took a sudden deep breath and turned again to the window with the involuntary distaste of one who wishes to avoid the resurrection of a disagreeable memory. The movement told all to his companion, the bitterness, the humiliation, and the never-ending sting.

"What! Haven't you any curiosity," he persisted.

"No," Bofinger said without looking at him, "I don't care to hear either. All that is over. I botched the job—I got what I deserved."

"You did not understand him," Groll answered.

"He was crazy—mad," Bofinger said bitterly.

"We call mad what we can't understand," Groll objected slowly. "So you don't care what became of him?"

"I do not."

"He died three weeks after his appearance in the court."

"Who told you that?"

"I was interested in the case," Groll repeated softly.

This time Bofinger remained blankly staring at him, struck by a dawning comprehension. All at once, forgetting the distance between them, he seized his partner by the collar crying:

"What do you mean? What had you to do with all that?"

"Everything," Groll said calmly. "Take your hand off and quiet down. I am going to tell you all."

"You—great God, it was you!"

"Right, me, your partner whom you deceived."

An oath shrieked out and Bofinger, dropping his hold, sank back in the limpness of despair.

"My time is valuable, let me get at this," Groll said coldly, abandoning the familiar tone. Then quickly he recounted the circumstances of Fargus's discovery of Bofinger's conspiracy.

"Yes, it was to me he came for his vengeance," he said, gazing at his companion who remained as in a stupor. "The idea was like him—to strike you by the hand of your partner—whom you thought you were deceiving. Not a bad idea that."

"You planned out that business in Mexico!" Bofinger cried hoarsely.

"An ordinary vengeance," Groll said, nodding, "would have meant nothing to him. I had to find him something that would not only bankrupt you both but crush out of you all youth, ambition, and hope. More—Fargus wished not only all that made life blotted out, but that life itself should be the most unendurable thing to you both. He succeeded. He knew it—strange man! He died happy."

"And he—where was he all that time," Bofinger said dully.

"He—he lay hidden in the safest place in the world," Groll said, looking out at the city with a smile full of malice. "Max Fargus, from the time you began to hunt him high and low—during the whole seven years remained quietly and safely in the house opposite to Sheila."

"Impossible!" Bofinger cried in horror.

"The most possible thing in the world," Groll answered. "Do you know the face of one of your neighbors? I don't."

"Ah, you were well paid for all that!" Bofinger murmured, clenching his fists.

"Of course—of course, naturally. His whole fortune has passed to me."

Bofinger, beside himself with rage, flung himself on the hunchback, crying:

"And if I strangle you, you scoundrel!"

"My dear Bo," Groll said calmly, "open murder fortunately is a transgression we lawyers avoid by instinct. Besides, it is not me you want to throttle but your own fate. What have I done that you wouldn't do if you had the opportunity? There, return to your side and don't make me call for help."

Bofinger gradually released his hold, sunk back and covered his eyes with his hand. At the end of a moment he said pleadingly:

"You're right. I have no kick comin'. You'll do something for me, Hyman?"

Groll puffed away on the cigar he had not ceased to smoke before answering decisively:

"No."

"Why not?"

"I promised him."

"Well, what?" Bofinger said coaxingly. "You ain't going to talk to me of promises and honor—come now!"

"Just that," Groll answered with a nod. "You won't understand. It's a superstition—so be it. But I owe what I am and what I'm going to be to Max Fargus. I shall do what I promised him."

"He's dead."

"It's not him I'm thinking of—it's myself—it's a superstition. I'd be afraid to do otherwise, I have that in me. Besides, I liked him."

"You won't do anything, then?"

"No."

"Honest?"

"Yes."

"What was the use of telling me, then?"

"I promised him to do so, as soon as Sheila was gone."

"Why not before?"

"There might have been complications."

"And do you think me such a fool that I don't know what to do now?" Bofinger cried suddenly. "A third of the estate belongs to Sheila as her dower right."

"And you would bring suit to recover that?" Groll said. The carriage had come to a stop before an office building on Union Square. "I get out here. One moment, are you quite sure that Sheila ever was the wife of Max Fargus?"

"What do you mean," Bofinger cried, halting with one foot on the sidewalk,—aghast at the thought.

"I think, my dear Bofinger," Groll said maliciously, "that a contract of marriage exists between you and Sheila—"

"Trickery!"

"But very difficult to explain away. You have the contract?"

"It is destroyed."

"You are sure?"

"Yes."

"My dear fellow," Groll said suavely, "that contract was in my possession three hours after you had told me of it."

"You stole it, then,—you!"

"I do not object to the word," Groll said. "You see I was careful to protect myself at every point before telling you these things. Moreover, I have the death-bed statement of Sheila herself. She at least believed it a marriage. A little reflection, I think, will show you the danger of your position."

Bofinger looked at the ground as a child does in the sudden lust of murder.

"Will you go back in the carriage," Groll said politely.

"No!"

"You are foolish to take it so hard," Groll said with a shrug. "I have stirred up a mess of nasty memories and you imagine you are the Bofinger of ten years ago. You are not. You will suffer an hour or so and then you will forget. Do you know what is the best thing to do? Get into my carriage and drive back. Make an impression on your clients. Call out, when you get back, 'Mr. Hyman Groll wants you at his office.' Then you'll get a reputation as a man of influence. Get into the carriage and for twenty minutes imagine yourself its master. Here, smoke these—they're good ones."

He drew a couple of cigars and held them out gravely to Bofinger, who at the end of a moment took them, looking on the ground, and entered the carriage.

"Hyman, you'll do something for me?" he said gently.

"I won't give you a cent," Groll said, "but I may have need of you some day." He shut the door and called to the coachman, "Jefferson Market Court!"

When the carriage turned, Bofinger was holding his head in his hands.

"Ugh!" Groll said to himself, gazing after him with a somber glance, "and I might have been like that!"

He remained still, shuddering at the thought which Bofinger's abjection had called up; as in another's death what we weep for is often the imminence of our own.

Two or three persons found the situation unusual enough to turn and glance back.