saved against his will.
A voice spoke through the darkness. It was a weird, chilling voice -
scarcely more than a whisper, yet clear and penetrating.
"What is your name?"
It was not a question. Rather, it was a command to speak.
"Harry Vincent," replied the man who had been deterred from self-
destruction. The words had come to his lips automatically.
"Why did you try suicide?"
It was another command.
"Melancholy, I suppose," said Vincent. He was speaking of his own accord
now; somehow he wanted to talk.
"Go on," came the voice.
"It's not much of a story," replied Vincent. "Perhaps I was a fool. I'm all
alone here in New York. No job, no friends, nothing to live for. My folks are
all out in the Middle West, and I haven't seen them for years. I don't want to
see them. I guess they think I'm a success here, but I'm not."
"You are well dressed," the stranger's voice remarked.
Vincent laughed nervously. "Yes," he said, "I'm wearing a light overcoat,
and the weather hasn't scarcely begun to be chilly. But that's only appearance.
Everything else is in hock. I have one dollar and thirteen cents in actual
cash."
The mysterious stranger did not reply. The car was rolling along a side
street, the bridge was now far behind. Vincent, his nerves somewhat settled,
stared into the opposite corner of the limousine, vainly seeking to observe his
companion's face. But the shade was drawn and he could not even detect a blotch
of white amid the darkness.
"What about the girl?" came the voice.
The penetrating whisper startled Vincent. The single, and most important,
item that he had omitted from his brief story had been fathomed by this stranger
whose cunning was the equal of his strength.
"The girl?" questioned Vincent. "The girl? My - my girl out home?"
"Yes."
"She married another man," said Vincent. "That was the reason I was on the
bridge tonight. I might have struggled on for a while if I hadn't been so hard
up. But when the letter came that told me she was married - well, that ended
it."
He paused, and hearing no reply, added to his confession.
"The letter came two days ago," he said. "I haven't slept since. I was on
the bridge all last night, but I didn't have nerve to jump - then. I guess it
was the fog that helped me this time."
"Your life," said the stranger's voice slowly, "is no longer your own. It
belongs to me now. But you are still free to destroy it. Shall we return to the
bridge?"
"I don't know," blurted Vincent. "This is all like a dream; I don't
understand it. Perhaps I did fall from the bridge, and this is death that I am
now experiencing. Yet it seems real, after all. What good is my life to anyone?
What will you do with it?"
"I shall improve it," replied the voice from the darkness. "I shall make it
