Courtland’s hand was in his pocket.  He always had plenty of money about him.  That had never been one of his troubles.  He had been to the bank that day, fortunately.  Now he thrust a handful of bills into Wittemore’s astonished hands.

“There’s fifty!  Will that see you through?  And I can send you more if you need it.  Just wire me how much you want.”

Wittemore stood looking down at the bills, and tears began to run down his cheeks and splash upon them.  Courtland felt his own eyes filling.  What a pitiful, lonely life this had been!  And the fellows had let him live that way!  To think that a few paltry greenbacks should bring tears!

A few minutes later he stood looking after the whirling taxi as it bore away Wittemore into the darkness of the evening street, his heart pounding with several new emotions.  Witless Abner for one!  What a surprise he had been!  Would everybody you didn’t fancy turn out that way if you once got hold of the key of their souls and opened the door?

Then the little wrapped bottle he held in his hand reminded him that he must hasten if he would perform the mission left for him and return in time for supper.  There was something in his soul that would not let him wait until after supper.  So he plunged forward into the dusk and swung himself on board a down-town car.

He had no small trouble in finding the street, or rather court, in which the old woman lived.

He stumbled up the narrow staircase, lighting matches as he went, for the place was dark as midnight.  By the time he had climbed four flights he was wondering what in thunder Wittemore came to places like this for?  Just to major in sociology?  Didn’t the nut know that he would never make a success in a thing like that?  What was he doing it for, anyway?  Did he expect to teach it?  Poor fellow, he would never get a job!  His looks were against him.

He knocked, with no result, at several doors for his old woman, but at last a feeble voice answered:  “Come in,” and he entered a room entirely dark.  There didn’t even appear to be a window, though he afterward discovered one opening into an air-shaft.  He stood hesitating within the room, blinking and trying to see what was about him.

“Be that you, Mr. Widymer?” asked a feeble voice from the opposite corner.

“Wittemore couldn’t come.  He had a telegram that his mother is dying and he had to get the train.  He sent me with the medicine.”

“Oh, now ain’t that too bad!” said the voice.  “His mother dyin’!  An’ to think he should remember me an’ my medicine!  Well, now, what d’ ye think o’ that?”

“If you’ll tell me where your gas is located I’ll make a light for you,” said Courtland, politely.

“Gas!” The old lady laughed aloud.  “You won’t find no such thing as gas around this part o’ town.  There’s about an inch of candle up on that shelf.  The distric’ nurse left it there.  I was thinkin’ mebbe I’d get Mr. Widymer to light it fer me when he come, an’ then the night wouldn’t seem so long.  It’s awful, when you’re sufferin’ to have the nights long.”