"It has stopped raining, and the walk will tone me up.

Good night and good luck." And they parted, neither ever expecting to see the other again, and equally careless whether they did or not.
Breitmann walked rapidly toward the river, crossed, and at length entered a gloomy old _pension_ over a restaurant frequented by bargemen, students, and human driftwood.

As he climbed the badly lighted stairs, a little, gray-haired man, wearing spectacles, passed him, coming down.

A "pardon" was mumbled, and the little man proceeded into the restaurant, picked a _Figaro_ from the table littered with newspapers, ensconced himself in a comfortable chair, and ordered coffee.

No one gave him more than a cursory glance.