size was in his bright-blue scarf; another, its match, loaded
down his fat little finger. Both could be unscrewed and set in a
hair ornament which his wife wore at first nights or when they
dined in state at Delmonico's. As he studied Feuerstein, his
face had its famous smile, made by shutting his teeth together
and drawing his puffy lips back tightly from them.

``That is all past and gone,'' said Feuerstein. ``As a lad I was
saved by you from the consequences of boyish folly. And now, a
man grown, I come to you to enlist your aid in avenging an insult
to my honor, an--''

``Be as brief as possible,'' cut in Loeb. ``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. You're a frightful fakir and liar,
Feuerstein. You were, seven years ago; of course, the habit's
grown on you. Speak out! What do you want? As your lawyer, I
must know things exactly as they are.''

``I ran away with a girl--the daughter of the brewer, Peter
Ganser,'' said Feuerstein, sullen but terse. ``And her father
wouldn't receive me--shut her up--put me out.''