“Ain’t them th’ dizzy habiliments?” A note of envy crept into Blackie’s voice. “His name is Hugo Luders. Used t’ be a reporter on the Germania, but he’s reformed and gone into advertisin’, where there’s real money. Some say he wears them clo’es on a bet, and some say his taste in dress is a curse descended upon him from Joseph, the guy with the fancy coat, but I think he wears ’em because he fancies ’em. He’s been coming here ever’ afternoon for twelve years, has a cup of coffee, game of chess, and a pow-wow with a bunch of cronies. If Baumbach’s ever decide to paint the front of their shop or put in cut glass fixtures and handpainted china, Hugo Luders would serve an injunction on ’em. Next!” “Who’s the woman with the leathery complexion and the belt to match, and the untidy hair and the big feet? I like her face. And why does she sit at a table with all those strange-looking men? And who are all the men? And who is the fur-lined grand opera tenor just coming in—Oh!” Blackie glanced over his shoulder just as the tall man in the doorway turned his face toward us. “That? Why, girl, that’s Von Gerhard, the man who gives me one more year t’ live. Look at everybody kowtowing to him. He don’t favor Baumbach’s often. Too busy patching up the nervous wrecks that are washed up on his shores.” The tall figure in the doorway was glancing from table to table, nodding here and there to an acquaintance. His eyes traveled the length of the room. Now they were nearing us. I felt a sudden, inexplicable tightening at heart and throat, as though fingers were clutching there. Then his eyes met mine, and I felt the blood rushing to my face as he came swiftly over to our table and took my hand in his. “So you have discovered Baumbach’s,” he said. “May I have my coffee and cigar here with you?” “Blackie here is responsible for my being initiated into the sticky mysteries of Baumbach’s. I never should have discovered it if he had not offered to act as personal conductor. You know one another, I believe?” The two men shook hands across the table. There was something forced and graceless about the act. Blackie eyed Von Gerhard through a misty curtain of cigarette smoke. Von Gerhard gazed at Blackie through narrowed lids as he lighted his cigar. “I’m th’ gink you killed off two or three years back,” Blackie explained. “I remember you perfectly,” Von Gerhard returned, courteously. “I rejoice to see that I was mistaken.” “Well,” drawled Blackie, a wicked gleam in his black eyes, “I’m some rejoiced m’self, old top. Angel wings and a white kimono, worn bare-footy, would go some rotten with my Spanish style of beauty, what? Didn’t know that you and m’dame friend here was acquainted. Known each other long?” I felt myself flushing again. “I knew Dr. von Gerhard back home. I’ve scarcely seen him since I have been here. Famous specialists can’t be bothered with middle-aged relatives of their college friends, can they, Herr Doktor?”