Fischer nodded. His hand stole out of his overcoat
pocket.
“Better give them one if they look like trouble,”
his host advised. “They’ve plenty
of spunk, but I can tell you they make tracks for their
holes if they hear one of those things bark.”
“They shall hear it fast enough, if they try
to hustle me,” Fischer observed grimly.
“You’ve some pluck,” the Irishman
declared, as he watched his departing guest ascend
the steps. “Sure, this is no place for cowards,
anyway. And good night and good luck to you!
Jake will do your job slick, if any one could.”
Fischer beat his little tattoo upon the trapdoor,
crawled through it and underneath the flap in the
counter, out into the saloon. He paused for a
moment to look around, on his way to the door.
The fight was apparently over, for every one was standing
at the counter, drinking with a swarthy-faced man
whose cheeks were stained with blood. From a
distant corner came the sound of groans. The air
seemed heavier than ever with foul tobacco smoke.
The man at the piano still thrashed out his unmelodious
chords. Some women in a corner were pretending
to dance. One or two of them looked curiously
at Fischer, but he passed out, unchallenged.
Even the air of the slum outside seemed pure and fresh
after the heated den he had left. He reached the
corner of the street in safety and stepped quickly
into his car. He threw both windows wide open
and murmured an order to the chauffeur. Then he
leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment.
He was a man not overburdened with imagination, but
it seemed to him just then that he would never be
able altogether to forget the face of that ghastly,
dehumanised creature, crouching like some terrified
wild animal in his fetid refuge.
Mrs. Theodore Hastings was forty-eight years old,
which her friends said was the reason why her mansion
on Fifth Avenue was furnished and lit with the delicate
sombreness of an old Italian palace. There was
about it none of the garishness, the almost resplendent
brilliancy associated with the abodes of many of our
neighbours. Although her masseuse confidently
assured her that she looked twenty-eight, Mrs. Hastings
preferred not to put the matter to the test. She
received her carefully selected dinner guests in a
great library with cedarwood walls, furnished with
almost Victorian sobriety, and illuminated by myriads
of hidden lights. Pamela, being a relative, received
the special consideration of an affectionately bestowed
embrace.
“Pamela, my child, wasn’t it splendid
I heard that you were in New York!” she exclaimed.
“Quite by accident, too. I think you treat
your relatives shamefully.”
Her niece laughed.
“Well, anyhow, you’re the first of them
I’ve seen at all, and directly Jim told me he
was coming to you, I made him ring up in case you had
room for me.”
