"Isn't it his night for the Pagans this month?" somebody inquired.
"Yes," returned Bently, "but I took the liberty of going to him and asking if he would let me take it this turn. I hope you fellows don't mind." The talk thus flowed on in a desultory fashion amid ever thickening clouds of tobacco smoke, and Grant Herman, sitting for the most part quiet, had a whimsical idea in looking at his half-extinguished cigar. Certain excellent cigars, his thoughts ran, have a way of burning sluggishly about the middle, and without actually going out, yet need to be relighted; and in the same way a man's life goes on better for the kindling flame of a fresh attachment in middle life. He fell into reverie, thinking of Helen and of Ninitta. He had not seen the Italian since her flight, but from Mrs. Greyson he had learned the story of the finding and recovery of the fugitive; and his heart kindled with gratitude toward the woman who had prevented consequences which he should have fruitlessly regretted. He became so absorbed in his thoughts that only the entrance of Fred Rangely aroused him.
"Hallo, Rangely," the new comer was greeted, "where do you come from at this time of night?"
"Oh, from the office of the Daily Day-before-yesterday. I had an article in, and I wanted to read the proof. I can stand any thing in the world better than I can endure a compositor's blunders. Do any of you know Dr. Ashton?"
"I do," somebody answered. "What of him?"
"Rather clever fellow, wasn't he?"
"Why, yes; I think he is. He's rather odd sometimes. What about him?"
"Dead."
"Nonsense! I saw him myself not three hours ago, posting a letter in the box opposite his office."
"He is dead, though. Heart disease. They just got the news at the Advertiser office."