Ganser went over into Nassau Street and found Beck in his
office. He gazed with melancholy misgivings at this lean man
with hair and whiskers of a lifeless black. Beck suggested a
starved black spider, especially when you were looking into his
cold, amused, malignant black eyes. He made short work of the
guileless brewer, who was dazed and frightened by the meshes in
which he was enveloped. Staring at the horrid specter of
publicity which these men of craft kept before him, he could not
vigorously protest against extortion. Beck discovered that
twenty thousand was his fighting limit.

``Leave the matter entirely in our hands,'' said Beck. ``We'll
make the best bargain we can. But Feuerstein has shrewd
lawyers--none better. That man Loeb--'' Beck threw up his arms.
``Of course,'' he continued, ``I had to know your limit. I'll
try to make the business as cheap for you as possible.''

``Put 'em off,'' said Ganser. ``My Lena's sick.''

His real reason was his hopes from the reports on Feuerstein's
past, which his detective would make. But he thought it was not
necessary to tell Beck about the detective.



VI

TRAGEDY IN TOMPKINS SQUARE