“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Rosenstein. “Why are you not at the store? Where are the keys?” The young man’s face fell. He looked at Rosenstein curiously. Then, “Were you only joking?” he asked. “Joking?” repeated Rosenstein, more amazed than ever. “Me? How? When? Are you crazy?” “You told us all yesterday to close the store and go and have a good time, and that we needn’t come back for a week.” Rosenstein steadied himself against the door. He tried to speak, but something was choking him. Finally, pointing to his breast, he managed to gasp faintly: “Me?” The clerk nodded. “And what else did I do?” asked Rosenstein, timidly. “You gave us each five dollars and—and asked us to sing something and—what is it, Mr. Rosenstein. Are you ill?” “Go—go!” gasped Rosenstein. “Get everybody and open the store again. Quickly. And tell them all not to speak of what happened yesterday. They—they—can—they can (gulp) keep the money. But the store must be opened and nobody must tell.” He staggered out into the street. A policeman saw him clutching a lamp-post to steady himself. “Are you sick, Mr. Rosenstein?” he asked. “You look pale. Can’t I get you a drink?” Rosenstein recoiled in horror. “I am not a drinker!” he cried. Then he walked off, his head in a whirl, his heart sick with a sudden dread. He took a long walk, and when he felt that he had regained control of himself he returned to the store. It was open, and everything was going on as usual. And there was a man—a stranger—waiting for him. When he beheld Rosenstein the stranger’s face lit up. “Good-morning!” he cried, cheerfully. “Sorry to trouble you so early, but this is rent day, and I need the money.” Rosenstein turned pale. The saleswomen had turned their heads away with a discretion that was painfully apparent. Rosenstein’s eyes blinked rapidly several times. Then he said, huskily, “What money?” The stranger looked at him in surprise. “Don’t you remember this?” he asked, holding out a card. Rosenstein looked at him. “Yes, this is my card. But what of it?” “Look on the other side.” Rosenstein looked. Staring him in the face was: “I owe Mister Casey thirty-six dollars. I. Rosenstein.” The writing was undeniably his. And suddenly there came to him a dim, distant, dreamlike recollection of standing upon a mountain-top with a band of music playing around him and a Mr. Casey handing him some money. “I thought that was an old dream,” he muttered to himself. Then, turning to the stranger, he asked, “Who are you?” “Me?” said the stranger, in surprise; “why, I’m Casey—T. Casey, of Casey’s café. You told me to come as soon as I needed the——” “Hush!” cried Rosenstein. “Never mind any more.” He opened a safe, took out the money, and paid Mr. Casey. When the latter had gone Rosenstein called the bookkeeper aside, and, in a fearful tone, whispered in his ear: “Ach! I am so glad when I think that I didn’t, open the safe yesterday.” The bookkeeper looked at him in surprise.