"Will there be another mail from California to-night?" he inquired, clutching a last hope.
"Not to-night," responded the clerk.
The young man stood there for a second, staring unconsciously into the window, and not seeing anybody or anything. Then he turned slowly to go.
The clerk knew that look on the face of men who asked for letters, and he had a movement of kindness.
"Say, young feller!" he called, brusquely.
McDowell Sutro faced about instantly, with a swift flash of hope.
"If you're expecting money in that letter, maybe it's registered," suggested the clerk. "Ask over there in the corner."
"Thank you," the young man answered, gratefully; and he walked to the window in the corner with expectation again lighting his face.
But there was no registered letter for McDowell Sutro, and there could none arrive before the next morning. And as the handsome young Californian left the post-office he knew that he had hardly a right even to hope that the letter he was asking for should ever arrive.
He stepped out on Fifth Avenue; and though a warm June wind blew balmily up from Washington Square, his heart was chill within him. He shivered as he wondered what he was to do now. He knew no one in New York, and he had not a cent in his pocket.