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“I had just enough time in which to get to the ferry, and, after emphasizing to the widow the necessity of her getting Bunker’s key before he left, and of leaving my studio empty against the possible arrival of Mrs. Milner without me, I rushed away.

“I reached the ferry on time; but Mrs. Milner was not there, nor did she come, though I waited until seven o’clock. Then I inquired, and an official informed that the five-thirty–the train boat–had met with an accident, and had landed her passengers at the nearest dock, which was a little further up. I hurried there, but Mrs. Milner was not visible. At last, fearing lest she had gone to the studio, and had met the widow with that picturesque black eye, I hastened uptown again.

“At the street-door I met Bunker–drunk as a lord.

“‘Is she up there yet?’ I asked, anxiously.

“‘Who?’ he answered, in a tone that told me he had forgotten.

“‘Did you give her your key? Give me that key–the key of your studio. Hurry up!’

“A dim light of intelligence flashed over his cheerful face, and he grinned.

“‘Oh, yesh–yesh; thash so!’ He pulled out a bunch of keys. ‘Here’s keys, ol’ man–street-door key and studio key.’

“As he staggered off, I bounded up the stairs, with the two keys he had pulled from his bunch.

“The widow met me at my door.

“‘Has a lady called here?’ I asked, hastily.

“‘Somebody peeped in,’ she said. ‘It may have been a lady, but I thought it was Mr. Bunker, and as soon as I could–I was dressing my eye–I followed out; but he was gone.’

“‘Oh, Lord!’ I groaned. ‘If it was she, she’s gone out to my place, and she will tell my wife.’

“Then I remembered that Mrs. Milner did not have my country address, and was comforted.

“But I had been extremely agitated, and now my shattered nervous system went back on me so completely that I practically turned that interesting female out.

“‘The lady may come back at any moment,’ I said. ‘Here are the keys–this one for the outer door, this one for the studio. Don’t let her find you with me in this place.’

“I gave the widow the keys, and she left, saying that she would make a call on someone who had promised her employment, and that she would not annoy me further. She was extremely grateful for my kindness, and all that.

“I hurried her out; and, after a while, settled down to my desk, and worked through the evening–worked hard, to keep from worrying over the whereabouts of Mrs. Milner, alone in that great city.

“Mrs. Milner quite failed to appear; but, at eleven o’clock the other one came. I heard her in the hall, fumbling at the keyhole of Bunker’s door, and went out.

“‘This key will not unlock the door,’ she said, and I joined her.

“Trying the key, I found that it did not fit–in fact, that it was a key shaped differently from all other door-keys in that building; and I knew that the befuddled Bunker had made a mistake.

“‘He gave you the right key for the street-door,’ the widow whimpered; ‘why did he give the wrong one for this door?’

“‘Drunk,’ I growled. ‘Come in, and we’ll talk it over.’

“‘Oh, I cannot,’ she complained. ‘To think of it! the terrible position I am in! Oh, to think of it!’

“‘Don’t think of it,’ I answered; ‘it’s all right. Don’t think of it, and don’t talk of it. I’ll say nothing, and I’ll go home as soon as I’ve finished the page I’m on. Come in and sit down.’

“I led her in, and sat her down, but her plaint would not cease. I fancied there was a smell of liquor in the air, but I could not be sure that it was not the clinging odor left by Bunker. I turned to my work, and endeavored to write, but could not; for now her mood changed to one of patronage, and she advised me upon my methods, my style of writing, my manner of living. She promised to be a friend to me all her life. She would help me to reform my rather slap-dash style of writing, and to give it the literary touch, and she would help me in my punctuation. She had made a study of my editorials, and knew all my weak points.