Several men who had been sitting at a table got up to go out. One of them pointed at a ragged fellow who, some distance back, was down on his knees scrubbing the floor. "Zeb, see that man?"
"What man?"
"The one scrubbing the floor."
"That isn't a man—it's a thing. What of it?"
"Nothing, only he used to be one of the brightest newspaper writers in this city."
Henry looked up.
"Yes—used to write some great stuff, they say."
"What's his name?"
"Henry DeGolyer."
Henry sprang to his feet. He put out his hands, for the room began to swim round. He looked toward the door, but the men were gone. A waiter ran to him and caught him by the arm. "Sit down here, sir."