“What is a man profited—” The words seemed an echo from some voice stilled long ago—a voice weirdly like that of his mother, who had been a Christian woman. The patriarchal countenance of Silas Tye, that humble visage so full of mystic content and placid certitude, stood before his mind's eye. Then there was Paul, a younger disciple of the ancient one. And, after all, what a strange and wonderful life had opened out before the fellow! Why, he had nothing to avoid, nothing to regret, nothing to fear.
The bell-boy brought the whisky and cigars, and when he had gone Hoag drank copiously, telling himself that the stimulant would restore his lost confidence, put to flight the absurd fancies which had beset him. He remained locked in his room the remainder of the afternoon. It was filled with the smoke of many cigars, and his brain was confused by the whisky he kept drinking. Looking from the window, he saw that night had fallen. The long streets from end to end were ablaze with light. Groping to the wall, he finally found an electric button and turned on the current. He had just gone back to the window when there was a rap on his door. He started, fell to quivering as from the sheer premonition of disaster, and yet he called out:
“Come in!”
It was the bell-boy.
“A letter for you, sir,” he announced, holding it forward. “A colored gen'man lef' it at de desk jes' er minute ergo.”
Hoag had the sensation of falling from a great height in a dizzy dream. “Whar is he?” he gasped, as he reached for the envelope.
“He's gone, sir. He tol' de clerk ter please have it tuck up quick, dat it was some important news, an' den he went off in er hurry.”
“Did—did you know 'im?” Hoag fairly gasped.
“Never seed 'im befo', sir; looked ter me like er country nigger—didn't seem ter know which way ter turn.”
When the boy had gone Hoag looked at the inscription on the letter. He had seen the writing before.