It was impossible and ridiculous to think of himself as David Helmsley, the millionaire,--there was, there could be no such person! David Helmsley,--the real David Helmsley,--was very old, very tired, very poor,--there was nothing left for him in this world save death.

He had no children, no friends,--no one who cared for him or who wanted to know what had become of him.

He was absolutely alone,--and in the hush of the summer night he fancied that the very moon looked down upon him with a chill stare as though wondering why he burdened the earth with his presence when it was surely time for him to die! It was not till he found that he was leaving the shore line, and that one or two gas lamps twinkled faintly ahead of him, that he realized he was entering the outskirts of a small town.

Pausing a moment, he looked about him.

A high-walled castle, majestically enthroned on a steep wooded height, was the first object that met his view,--every line of its frowning battlements and turrets was seen clearly against the sky as though etched out on a dark background with a pencil of light.