Faster, and faster, and faster—the sound of the wheels falling into a regular measure, until it has become a weird, rhythmical monotone.
"Gentlemen's shoes—Gentlemen's shoes—Gentlemen's shoes."
Then there is a momentary flare of light, a final, blood-curdling scream, and the one-eyed demon—the faded and soiled woman—the sobbing baby—the sleeping child—the marching child with the big, round eyes—the people who are going somewhere, and the artist who is going nowhere, are on their way.
He has taken a seat facing the faded woman, and is unconsciously studying her face. She is still hushing the babe to rest. On one side the sleeper is huddled up against her. On the other, next to the window and resting upon its knees, the child with the big, round eyes stares out into the darkness.
The coach is warm. The heat and the strong liquor are beginning to tell on him. The face before him begins to mingle with all sorts of impossible fancies. The roar of the flying train is in his ears, but it seems the roar of some mighty sea that is about to overwhelm him. The conductor, coming through, shakes his arm to rouse him.
"Tickets!"
"Oh, yes!"—he forgot. He thrusts a bill into the conductor's hand. "Keep the change, I will ride it out."
The drowsiness is again stealing upon him. He still sees the wretched face before him and is studying it; but always between them are those other faces—the face of Eva Delorme and of Evelin March—and the piteous, frightened look that rests now upon one, now upon the other,—and now the two are melting—melting into one, like the blending outlines of a dissolving view—and both fade out into the little white globe with its whirling black words, that the hum of the train flying through the night keeps repeating over, and over, and over,—"Gentlemen's shoes—Gentlemen's shoes—Gentlemen's shoes."