"Why, hello, George, old man!" said the voice. "What are you doing down here?"
Hurstwood was already confronted, and recognised his friend Kenny, the stock-broker.
"Just attending to a little private matter," he answered, his mind working like a key-board of a telephone station. This man evidently did not know—he had not read the papers.
"Well, it seems strange to see you way up here," said Mr. Kenny genially. "Stopping here?"
"Yes," said Hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on the register.
"Going to be in town long?"
"No, only a day or so."
"Is that so? Had your breakfast?"
"Yes," said Hurstwood, lying blandly. "I'm just going for a shave."
"Won't you come have a drink?"
"Not until afterwards," said the ex-manager. "I'll see you later. Are you stopping here?"
"Yes," said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again, added: "How are things out in Chicago?"
"About the same as usual," said Hurstwood, smiling genially.
"Wife with you?"
"No."
"Well, I must see more of you to-day. I'm just going in here for breakfast. Come in when you're through."
"I will," said Hurstwood, moving away. The whole conversation was a trial to him. It seemed to add complications with every word. This man called up a thousand memories. He represented everything he had left. Chicago, his wife, the elegant resort—all these were in his greeting and inquiries. And here he
