The Wastrel did not relish this. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. As he proceeded, other painful reminiscences were aroused. Just because she was sorry for that young fool! "Uh-huh," he repeated, rising and bowing as he passed Ruth's table. He then arose, and, taking a few turns in the chamber, stopped suddenly before her. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. ” Capes had not quite the same power of recovery. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. But one of these days everything will click back into place. “I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources.
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