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 Nah," in response to a concerned query, "I ain't feelin' up to much to-night."

Hat tilted over his eyes, one elbow on the chair-back, another on the table, flabby jowls quivering as he mumbled the indispensable cigar, puffy hands clasped across his ample chest, he sat for many minutes by the side of his unheeded drink, pondering, turning over and over in his mind the one idea it was capable of harboring at a time.

"He c'u'd 've wrote that letter to himself. … He's wise enough. … Yeh can't fool Hickey all the time. … I'll get him yet. Gottuh make good 'r it's the sidewalks f'r mine. … Me, tryin' hard to make an 'onest livin'. … 'Nd him with all kinds of money!"

The fat mottled fingers sought a waistcoat pocket and, fumbling therein, touched caressingly a little pellet of soft paper. Its possessor did not require to examine it to reassure himself as to its legitimacy as a work of art, nor as to the prominence of the Roman C in its embellishment of engraved arabesques.

"A century," he reflected sullenly; "one lonely