Miss Prillwitz was doubtful. "Mr. Trimble is a drunkard," she said.
"Not irreclaimable, I am sure," said Mrs. Halsey. "He was a sober man when I knew him. Despair alone could have driven him to drink. I wish you would send and ask him to call and see you."
So a letter was sent, and none too soon, for affairs were now at their worst with Stephen Trimble.
CHAPTER XII.
WITH THE DYNAMITERS.
"While we range with Science, glorying in the time,
City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime;
Where among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet,
Crime and hunger cast out maidens by the thousand on the street;
Where the master scrimps his haggard seamstress of her daily bread,
And a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead."
—Anon.
HE anarchist of Rickett's Court, under whose influence the inventor had fallen, was a thoroughly bad man, and the writer has no sympathy to waste upon him or his methods, but with his deluded and desperate victim we should all sympathize.