at the firm--there where he had always thought himself one of the most highly valued of employees!
But there must be someone upon whom he could call for help; someone he could convince that John Woodford was still living; someone who would be glad to think that he might be living.
What about Willis Grann? Grann had been his closest friend next to Curtis Dawes. He had lent money more than once to Woodford in the past, and certainly should be willing to do so now.
Hastily Woodford called Grann’s number. This time he was more careful in his approach, when he heard the other’s voice.
"Willis, I’ve got something to tell you that may sound incredible, but you’ve got to believe, do you hear?" he said.
"Who is this and what in the world are you talking about?" demanded Grann’s startled voice.
"Willis, this is John Woodford. Do you hear, John Woodford! Everyone thinks I’m dead but I’m not, and I’ve got to see you."
“What?" cried the other’s voice over the telephone. “Why, you must be drunk. I saw Woodford lying in his coffin myself, so I know he’s dead."
"I tell you, it’s not so, I’m not dead!" Woodford almost screamed. "I’ve got to get some money, though, to get away from here and you must lend it to me! You always lent it to me before, and I need it now worse than ever I did. I’ve got to get away!"
"So that’s it!" said Willis Grann. "Because I used to help Woodford out you think you can get money from me by just calling me up and pretending that you’re he. Why, Woodford himself was the biggest pest in the world with his constant borrowings. I felt almost relieved when he died. And now you try to make me believe that he’s come back from the dead to pester me again!"
“But he never died—I’m John Woodford really—" Woodford protested vainly.
“Sorry, old top," returned Grann’s mocking voice. "Next time pick a living person to impersonate, not a dead one."
He hung up. John Woodford slowly replaced the receiver and made his way out to the street.
The wind was blowing harder and now was bringing with it clouds of fine snow that stung against his face like sand. He shivered as he stumbled along the streets of dark shops, his body freezing as his mind was frozen.
There was no one from whom he could get help, he saw. His paramount necessity was still to get out of the city, and to do that he must rely on himself.
The icy blasts of the snow-laden wind penetrated through his thin coat. His hands were shaking with the cold.
A sign caught Woodford’s eye, the illuminated beacon of a relief lodging-house. At once he made his way toward it. He could at least sleep there tonight, get started from the city in the morning.
The shabby men dozing inside in chairs looked queerly at him as he entered. So did the young clerk to whom he made his way.
“I’d—I’d like to stay here tonight," he said to the clerk.
The clerk stared. "Are you trying to kid me?"
Woodford shook his head. "No, I’m penniless and it’s cold outside. I’ve got to stay somewhere."
The clerk smiled disdainfully. "Listen, fellow, no one with duds like yours is that hard up. Scram before I call a cop.”
Woodford looked down at his clothes, his frock coat and stiff white shirt and
