Then the house was a "mansion," and its
front of brown sandstone the outward sign of wealth and fashion.
Now, on one side, it rubbed shoulders with the shop of a man
milliner, and across the street the houses had been torn down
and replaced by a department store. Now, instead of a sombre
jail-like facade, his outlook was a row of waxen ladies, who,
before each change of season, appeared in new and gorgeous
raiment, and, across the avenue, for his approval, smiled
continually.
"It is time you moved, Stephen," urged his friend and lawyer,
Judge Henry Gaylor. "I can get you twice as much for this lot as
you paid for both it and the house."
But Mr. Hallowell always shook his head. " Where would I go,
Henry?" he would ask. "What would I do with the money? No, I
will live in this house until I am carried out of it."
With distaste, the irritated city editors "followed up" the
three-column story of the Despatch.
"Find out if there's any truth in that," they commanded. "The
old man won't see you, but get a talk out of Rainey. And see
Judge Gaylor. He's close to Hallowell. Find out from him if that
story didn't start as a bear yarn in Wall Street."
So, when Walsh of the Despatch was conducted by Garrett, the
butler of Mr. Hallowell, upstairs to that gentlemen's library,
he found a group of reporters already entrenched. At the door
that opened from the library to the bedroom, the butler paused.
"What paper shall I say?" he asked.
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