``Police! Police!''

Feuerstein looked fearfully round, gave Dippel a kick and hurried
away. 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.

Early the next morning he established a modus vivendi with his
landlady by giving her ten dollars on account. He had an
elaborate breakfast at Terrace Garden and went to Bloomingdale's,
arriving at eleven precisely. Lena Ganser was already there,
pretending to shop at a counter in full view of the appointed
place. They went to Terrace Garden and sat in the Stube. He at
once opened up his sudden romantic passion. ``All night I have
walked the streets,'' he said, ``dreaming of you.'' When he had
fully informed her of the state of his love-maddened mind toward
her, he went on to his most congenial topic--himself.

``You have heard of the Freiherr von Feuerstein, the great
soldier?'' he asked her.

Lena had never heard of him. But she did not know who was German
Emperor or even who was President of the United States. She,
therefore, had to be extremely cautious. She nodded assent.

``My uncle,'' said Feuerstein impressively. His eyes became