Toward four o’clock that afternoon Hetzel, who lay prone upon his sofa, glancing lazily at the last issue of his favorite magazine, heard a heavy, unsteady footfall upon the stairs. Next instant the door flew open, and Arthur stood before him, hair awry, clothing disordered, countenance drawn, haggard, and soiled with dust and perspiration. Hetzel jumped up, and was at his side in no time.
“What—what is the matter with you?” he demanded.
Arthur tottered a short distance into the room, and sank upon a chair.
It flashed across Hetzel’s mind that his friend might possibly be the worse for drink. He laid hold of an ammonia bottle, and held it to Arthur’s nostrils.
“No—no; I don’t need that,” Arthur said, waving Hetzel away.
“Well, then, speak. Tell me, what is the trouble?”
“Oh, Julian, I am ruined. If—if you knew what I have done!”
Arthur buried his face in his hands.
“Is—has—has something happened to your wife?”
“Oh, my wife, my wife,” groaned Arthur, incoherently.