Zerkow took down a whiskey bottle and a red glass tumbler with a broken
base from a cupboard on the wall. The two drank together, Zerkow from
the bottle, Maria from the broken tumbler. They wiped their lips slowly,
drawing breath again. There was a moment's silence.

"Say," said Zerkow at last, "how about those gold dishes you told me
about the last time you were here?"

"What gold dishes?" inquired Maria, puzzled.

"Ah, you know," returned the other. "The plate your father owned in
Central America a long time ago. Don't you know, it rang like so many
bells? Red gold, you know, like oranges?"

"Ah," said Maria, putting her chin in the air as if she knew a long
story about that if she had a mind to tell it. "Ah, yes, that gold
service."

"Tell us about it again," said Zerkow, his bloodless lower lip moving
against the upper, his claw-like fingers feeling about his mouth and
chin. "Tell us about it; go on."

He was breathing short, his limbs trembled a little. It was as if some
hungry beast of prey had scented a quarry. Maria still refused, putting
up her head, insisting that she had to be going.

"Let's have it," insisted the Jew. "Take another drink." Maria took
another swallow of the whiskey. "Now, go on," repeated Zerkow; "let's
have the story." Maria squared her elbows on the deal table, looking