“Tell him that I wish him good luck,” she answered, “and⁠—yes, ask him, if he remembers what day of the month this is⁠—or no, don’t ask him that. Say nothing about it. Just tell him I send him my very best love, and that I wish him all the success in the world.”

It was about nine o’clock, when Landry and Page reached the foot of La Salle Street. The morning was fine and cool. The sky over the Board of Trade sparkled with sunlight, and the air was full of fluttering wings of the multitude of pigeons that lived upon the leakage of grain around the Board of Trade building.

“ Mr. Cressler used to feed them regularly,” said Landry, as they paused on the street corner opposite the Board. “Poor⁠—poor Mr. Cressler⁠—the funeral is tomorrow, you know.”

Page shut her eyes.