It seemed to the proprietor, as he emerged from his house, that there was something weird in the morning light. He looked up, and saw that the sky was clear. He looked down, and the street was veiled in a strange shadow. The boys looked at him as if they were half startled. Inquisitive faces peered at him from a passing omnibus. A beggar laughed as he held out his greasy hat. Passengers paused to observe him. All this attention, which he once courted and accepted as flattery and fame, was disagreeable to him.
"Good God! Toll, what has happened since last night?" he said, as he sank back upon the satin cushions of the coupè.
"General, I don't think you're quite well. Don't die now. We can't spare you yet."
"Die? Do I look like it?" exclaimed Mr. Belcher, slapping his broad chest. "Don't talk to me about dying. I haven't thought about that yet."
"I beg your pardon. You know I didn't mean to distress you."
Then the conversation dropped, and the carriage wheeled on. The roll of vehicles, the shouting of drivers, the panoramic scenes, the flags swaying in the morning sky, the busy throngs that went up and down Broadway, were but the sights and sounds of a dimly apprehended dream. He was journeying toward guilt. What would be its end? Would he not be detected in it at the first step? How could he sit before the hawk-eyed man whom he was about to meet without in some way betraying his secret?
When the coupè stopped, Talbot roused his companion with difficulty.
"This can't be the place, Toll. We haven't come half a mile."
"On the contrary, we have come three miles."
"It can't be possible, Toll. I must look at your horse. I'd no idea you had such an animal."