The man listens for these noises. There is a loud clapping of hands. An address has concluded.
The glasses tinkle. Doors open and shut. Waiters and servants run through the hall giving orders and carrying on those quarrels which pertain to the unseen parts of public festivities.
"Why did I not go?" David Lockwin asks. "Ah! yes. Davy! Davy's tomb. I will see it, if it shall kill me to live until then. But how shall I pass this night? What shall I do? What shall I do?"
The glasses tinkle. The laughter bursts forth unrestrainedly. The banquet is moving to the inn-keeper's taste.
The electric lights swing on long wires. The glass in the windows is full of imperfections and sooty. The phantasmagoria on the wall distracts the suffering man. Why not have a light? He rises and turns on the gas. Perhaps there will be a paper or a book in the room. That will help.
Poverty of hotel life! There is only the card of rules hung on the door. Lockwin reads the rules and is thankful. He studies the lock history of the door, as represented in the marks of old locks and staples. Here a burglar has bored. Here a chisel has penetrated to push back the bolt. Yes, it was a burglar, for there is now a brass sheath to prevent another entry. Most of these breakages, however, have been made by the hotel people, as can be seen by the transom locks.
That brings up suicides. David Lockwin has committed suicide once. The subject is odious.
The laughter below resounds. The man above will read from the lining of some bureau drawer.
He goes to that piece of furniture. The dressing-case is completely empty excepting a laundry bill on pink paper.
He clutches that. He examines the printer's mark. He strives to recall the particular printing-office.