And beneath the brows, planted under his lids, was the merciless "$3.85." He opened his eyes to escape it, but the white light of the room seemed to sear the balls and forced him to close his eyes, when the "$3.85" confronted him again.
Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent--that particular thought took up its residence in his brain, and he could no more escape it than he could the "$3.85" under his eyelids.

A change seemed to come over the latter, and he watched curiously, till "$2.00" burned in its stead.

Ah, he thought, that was the baker.

The next sum that appeared was "$2.50." It puzzled him, and he pondered it as if life and death hung on the solution.

He owed somebody two dollars and a half, that was certain, but who was it?
To find it was the task set him by an imperious and malignant universe, and he wandered through the endless corridors of his mind, opening all manner of lumber rooms and chambers stored with odds and ends of memories and knowledge as he vainly sought the answer.