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As he moved down the street his face was mournful and his shoulders were drooped a stage invalid. When Hilda saw him coming she started up and gave a little cry of delight; but as she noted his woebegone appearance, a very real paleness came to her cheeks and very real tears to her great dark eyes. Mr. Feuerstein sank slowly into the seat beside her. "Soul's wife," he murmured.
"My time is much occupied. The bald facts, please FACTS, and BALD." Feuerstein settled himself and prepared to relate his story as if he were on the stage, with the orchestra playing low and sweet. "I met a woman and loved her," he began in a deep, intense voice with a passionate tremolo. "A bad start," interrupted Loeb. "If you go on that way, we'll never get anywhere.
Feuerstein ordered a round of beer with the air of a prince and without the slightest intention of paying for it. The young woman of the party was seated next to him. Even before he sat he recognized her as the daughter of Ganser, a rich brewer of the upper East Side. He had placed himself deliberately beside her, and he at once began advances.
His real reason was his hopes from the reports on Feuerstein's past, which his detective would make. But he thought it was not necessary to tell Beck about the detective. After another talk with Travis, Feuerstein decided that he must give up Hilda entirely until this affair with the Gansers was settled. Afterward well, there would be time to decide when he had his five thousand.
Dreck!" Then he rushed in and slammed the door. As Mr. Feuerstein left Hilda on the previous Sunday night he promised to meet her in Tompkins Square the next evening at the band concert. She walked up and down with Sophie, her spirits gradually sinking after half-past eight and a feeling of impending misfortune settling in close.
But Feuerstein advanced boldly. Twelve years of active membership in that band of "beats" which patrols every highway and byway and private way of civilization had thickened and toughened his skin into a hide. "Good evening, Albers," he said cordially, with a wave of the soft, light hat. "I see you have a vacant place in your little circle. Thank you!"
He waited until they were seated, then joined them and proceeded to make himself agreeable to the one who had just been introduced to him young Horwitz, an assistant bookkeeper at a department store in Twenty-third Street. But Horwitz had a "soul," and the yearning of that secret soul was for the stage. Feuerstein did Horwitz the honor of dining with him.
When he glanced back from a safe distance Dippel was waving to and fro on his wobbling legs, talking to a cabman. "Close-fisted devil," muttered Feuerstein. "He couldn't forget his money even when he was drunk. What good is money to a brute like him?" And he gave a sniff of contempt for the vulgarity and meanness of Dippel and his kind.
"Hilda's my friend," she said earnestly. "And I want to see her happy." "Noble creature!" exclaimed Mr. Feuerstein. "May God reward you!" And he dashed his hand across his eyes. He went to the mirror on his bureau, carefully arranged the yellow aureole, carefully adjusted the soft light hat. Then with feeble step he descended the stairs.
Loeb took up his pen, as if he were done with Feuerstein, but went on: "And you're SURE that the the FORMER Mrs. Feuerstein is divorced and won't turn up?" "Absolutely. She swore she'd never enter any country where I was." "Has she any friends who are likely to hear of this?" "She knew no one here." "All right. Go into the room to the left there. Mr. Travis or Mr.
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