at the hopelessness of it, the rage, the fury of it.

"Go on, go on," he whispered; "let's have it all over again. Polished
like a mirror, hey, and heavy? Yes, I know, I know. A punch-bowl worth a
fortune. Ah! and you saw it, you had it all!"

Maria rose to go. Zerkow accompanied her to the door, urging another
drink upon her.

"Come again, come again," he croaked. "Don't wait till you've got junk;
come any time you feel like it, and tell me more about the plate."

He followed her a step down the alley.

"How much do you think it was worth?" he inquired, anxiously.

"Oh, a million dollars," answered Maria, vaguely.

When Maria had gone, Zerkow returned to the back room of the shop, and
stood in front of the alcohol stove, looking down into his cold dinner,
preoccupied, thoughtful.

"A million dollars," he muttered in his rasping, guttural whisper, his
finger-tips wandering over his thin, cat-like lips. "A golden service
worth a million dollars; a punchbowl worth a fortune; red gold plates,
heaps and piles. God!"



CHAPTER 4