I shall miss your first appearance in England, Louise."

The sound of a violin came floating out from the inner room.

"That is my signal," she declared smiling. "De. Henschell was
almost beside himself that I came away. I come, Doctor," she called
out. "David, good fortune!" she added, giving him her hands. "Now
go, dear."




CHAPTER VIII

THE HAND OF MISFORTUNE


Between the two men, seated opposite each other in the large but
somewhat barely furnished office, the radical differences, both in
appearance and mannerisms, perhaps, also, in disposition, had never
been more strongly evident. They were partners in business and face
to face with ruin. Stephen Laverick, senior member of the firm,
although an air of steadfast gloom had settled upon his clean-cut,
powerful countenance, retained even in despair something of that
dogged composure, temperamental and wholly British, which had served
him well along the road to fortune. Arthur Morrison, the man who
sat on the other side of the table, a Jew to his finger-tips
notwithstanding his altered name, sat like a broken thing, with
tears in his terrified eyes, disordered hair, and parchment-pale
face. Words had flown from his lips in a continual stream. He