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The widowed Empress Frederick is either at her lovely castle of Kronberg, near Homburg, which is stocked from garret to cellar with those art treasures of which she is one of the finest connaisseuses in Europe, or else is traveling about in Italy, Austria or England.
"I bet yer," Aaron replied. "What d'ye think of that sucker?" "What's Alex been doing now?" Leon asked. "Alex! What d'ye mean, Alex?" Aaron said. "Alex I ain't worrying about at all. I mean Uncle Mosha Kronberg."
"Kronberg," said Carl coldly, "there's a lot I want to know. Moreover, I'm going to know it. Nor shall I trust to drunken jailers as I did a while back with a certain compatriot of yours. Late last spring when you sought employment at my cousin's town-house, you were already, I presume, a link in the chain.
"Try it," invited Carl pleasantly. "Do. And I'll help you over the threshold with a little lead. Do you know the way to the attic door in the west wing?" Kronberg, gulping with fear, said he did not. He was shaking violently. "Get the little lamp on the mantel there," commanded Carl curtly, "and light it. Bring it here. Now you will kindly precede me to the door I spoke of. I'll direct you.
Two cups of coffee and a second helping of mohn cake aided the process of celebrating this scheme, so that when Morris returned to his place of business it was nearly two o'clock. "Abe," he said as he entered, "I've been thinking over this here matter about Alex Kronberg, and I ain't going to talk to Alex about it at all. Do you know what I'm going to do?"
Then when the tortured nerves fell wildly to telegraphing spasmodic jerkings of distress from head to toe, the shrugging devil with the flute would talk vividly of roaring wood fires and the comforts awaiting the penitent below. Yesterday Kronberg had fainted. To-day
Groping desperately about, Kronberg searched for some covering to protect him from the icy cold. His search was unsuccessful. When the skylight grayed at dawn, he was pacing the floor, white and shaking with the chill. The key clicked in the lock. Kronberg, huddled in a corner, stirred and cunningly hid the flimsy coverings of chintz he had unearthed from an ancient trunk.
Even at Wittenberg his literary labours, as we have seen from his letter to Kronberg, were still mainly devoted to the Bible. In concert with Melancthon, and with the assistance of other friends, he set about a revision of his translation of the New Testament.
"We got enough to do we should pick out a few good styles to show Gershon." Morris nodded absently. His thoughts were centred on a short old man with close-cropped beard who at that very moment was turning the corner of Fifth Avenue and Nineteenth Street. Simultaneously Aaron Kronberg ran across the street from Sammet Brothers' doorway and clapped the old gentleman on the shoulder.
Mosha Kronberg we own this here house together, and he made a contract with you to sell you this here house which I stand by. Do you want to take it oder not? Because if not, we would keep your seven hundred and fifty dollars." Leon Sammet emitted a huge guffaw. "That worries me a whole lot," he replied. "As Aaron just told you, the seven hundred and fifty belongs to him."
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