A Shadowed Love by Fred M. White

There are few things more pitiable than a scoundrel out of luck. He is the scorn of all God-fearing people; he may swagger and bully as much as he likes, but there is ever the consciousness of the gulf between himself and an honest man. All his cunning tricks and dodges have failed; his so-called friends have fallen upon him; the policemen as he slinks by mark him with a cold eye that makes a note as he passes.

For the moment Horace Venner had fallen very low indeed. He had to button his absurdly showy coat across his chest to conceal the want of a vest beneath. There was a dinginess about his linen that told its own tale of nights spent on open seats and toilettes performed mostly by the aid of his ten dirty fingers.