"How did he look? Is he much changed?" Eleanore asked me quietly.
"Yes. He looks half sick—and old. He's been through a good deal," I answered.
"Did he talk about that?"
"Yes"—I hesitated—"and of what he wants to show me," I said. Eleanore looked quickly up.
"Are you going to see him soon again?"
"Yes—to-morrow morning—to have a look at his stoker friends. I want to have just one good look at the life that has made him what he is. That's all—that's all it amounts to——"
There was another silence. Then she came over behind my chair and I felt the cool quiet of her hand as she slowly stroked my forehead.
"You look tired, dear," she said.
Just before daylight the next morning I rose and dressed, swallowed some coffee and set out. I took a surface car downtown.