“He is alive. He is not hurt much.” Then Babel cried as though her heart would break, and Chertoff—went home. Gurtman lived. He lived, and in a few days the sweatshop was running again exactly as it had run before, and everything else went on exactly as it had gone on before. Perhaps Chertoff’s pale face became a trifle whiter, but that only brought out his ugliness the more vividly. He was a splendid workman, and Gurtman could not afford to lose him. Sometimes when the task was hard he sang that old song: “_Sang a little bird, and sang, And grew silent; Knew the heart of merriment, And forgot it. Why, O little songster bird, Grew you quiet? How learned you, O heart, to know Gloomy sorrow?_” THE MURDERER When Marowitz arrived at the station-house to report for duty, the sergeant gazed at him curiously. “You’re to report at headquarters immediately,” he said. “I don’t know what for. The Chief just sent word that he wants to see you.” Marowitz looked bewildered. Summons to headquarters usually meant trouble. Rewards usually came through the precinct Captain. Marowitz wondered what delinquency he was to be reprimanded for. He could think of nothing that he had done in violation of the regulations. Half an hour later he stood in the presence of the Chief. “You sent for me,” he said. The Chief looked at him inquiringly. “What is your name?” he asked. “Marowitz.” The Chief’s face lit up. “Oh, yes,” he said. “From the Eldridge Street station. Do you speak the Yiddish jargon?” Marowitz drew a long breath of relief. “Yes, sir,” he answered. “I live in the Jewish quarter.” “Good,” said the Chief. “I want you to lay aside your uniform and put on citizen’s clothes. Then go and look for a chap named Gratzberg. He is a Russian, and is wanted in Odessa for murder. He is supposed to be hiding somewhere in the Jewish quarter here. You’ll have no trouble in spotting him if you run across him. Here,”—the Chief drew a slip of paper from his desk—“here is the cabled description: Height, five feet seven; weight, about 150 pounds. Has a black beard. Blue eyes. Right ear marked on top by deep scar.” He handed the paper to Marowitz. “Keep your eyes open,” he said, “for marked ears. It’ll be a big thing for you if you catch him. When I was your age I would have given the world for a chance like this.”