And before him in review passed a motley company of every tragic group that he had ever known—­business associates, jailbirds, the inmates of Fairview, Storch’s terrible companions.  He recognized each group in its turn by their outer trappings.  But suddenly their clothes melted and even their flesh dissolved, and he saw nothing but a company of skeletons stripped of all unessentials, and he could no longer mark them apart.  And, in a flash, even these unmarked figures crumbled to dust, spreading out like a sunlit plain at noonday.  And he saw clouds gather and rain fall and green blades spring up miraculously and blossom succeed blossom.  And through it all Felix Monet stood on one side and Sylvia Molineaux on the other.

He awoke to the vigorous prod of a contemptuous boot.  A policeman stood over him.

“What are you doing here?” the officer bellowed down at him.

He rose quickly.  The sun was bathing the rejuvenated city in a flood of wonderful gold.

“My name is Fred Starratt,” he said, quietly.  “And I’m wanted for murder ... and some other things.  You’d better take me down.”

The policeman grasped his arm and together they made their way down to the level stretches of the paved street.

They stood for a moment to let a street car swing past.  It was crowded with clerks, standing on the running board.  Above the warning clang of the bell a voice came ringing out with a note of surprised recognition: 

“Hello, Fred Starratt!  What’s new?”

He made a trumpet with his hands.

“Everything!” he cried back, loudly. “Everything in the world!”

THE END