Poor Madame Raffoni had mumbled some obscure words about "die herz-kranke." "Heartsick, my God! I am heartsick," cried Randall Clayton.

"And, she may be alone; there may be no one to send." Clayton tried to recall the last directions which he had given to the disguised Leah Einstein.

All that he could recall was the murmured pledge, "I will come, I will come!" The lover's heart told him that Ferris' spies would now follow in his every movement.

He lingered, in a trance of agony, until long after the parchment-faced Somers had returned from Wall and Broad Street.
"It was a very quiet election," murmured Somers, who started at the appearance of the young man's haggard face.

He was astonished to see Clayton lingering there to the confines of darkness.
The faithful old tool of Mammon had crawled back to turn all his combination knobs and cast a last glance over the rooms into which his life had grown as the silkworm into its cocoon.
"You must go away, my boy," kindly said old Somers, "you need a long rest." "Yes, yes," mournfully replied Clayton, thinking of the five days of agony before Jack Witherspoon would arrive to run the gauntlet of the treacherous Ferris.