In the face of something so real, so terribly real, he was but a puny
worm, with no vocabulary to express his emotions--for he had none, save
the emotion of fear. That we knew from people who had been at the same
hotel where he was stopping when the great shock came. He ran through
the corridors like a frightened doe, in pajamas of silk, with wonderful
tassels of green. He wrung his hands, and babbled like a lunatic. "Oh,
my manuscripts! My manuscripts!" were the only intelligible words that
came from his white lips.
Think of it! He thought of those piffling stories--those stories of
unreality, when he was experiencing the biggest thing that ever came
into his little life! Do you wonder that we cared even less for him
after that? That I refused to see him at all, and that even wise,
understanding Bill Stanton couldn't touch his syndicate stuff?
IV
There is, of necessity, a hiatus here. One cannot write of what one does
not know. I lost all trace of Shelby during the intervening years,
except that I saw spasmodic productions of his in various periodicals,
and guessed that he must be working in those same bachelor quarters
probably still surrounded with the pictures of Miss Davis. There were
rumors, also, that he went frequently to the opera with very grand
people, and dined and supped on Lower as well as Upper Fifth Avenue.
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