“You remember Ricci? Where I got my paints the first part of the time. I had some trouble with that devil before I left. He came round and made a great scandal on the staircase. He shouted ‘Bandit! Ha! ha! Sporca la tua Madonna!’—how do you say it?—‘Sporco Tedesco.’ Then he called the neighbours to witness. He kept repeating he was ‘not afraid of me.’ I took him by the ear and kicked him out!” he ended with florid truculence. Volker laughed obsequiously but with discomfort. Kreisler solicited his sympathetic mirth with a masterful eye. He laughed himself, unnecessarily heartily. A scene of violence in which a small man was hustled, which Volker would have to applaud, was a clever prelude. Then Otto began to be nice. “I am sorry for the little devil! I shall have the money soon. I shall send it him. He shall not suffer. Antonio, too. I don’t owe much. I had to settle most before I left. Himmel! My landlord!” He choked mirthfully over his coffee a little, almost upsetting it, then mincingly adjusted the cup to his moustached lips. If he had to _settle up_ before he left, he could not have much now, evidently! There was a disagreeable pause. Volker stirred his coffee. He immediately showed his hand, for he looked up and with transparent innocence asked: “By the way, Otto, you remember Blauenstein at Münich⸺?” “You mean the little Jew from whom everybody used to borrow money?” Kreisler fixed him severely and significantly with his eye and spoke with heavy deliberation. “Did people borrow money from him? I had forgotten. Yes, that’s the man. He has turned up here; who do you think with? With Irma, the Bohemian girl. They are living together—round the corner there.” “Hum! Are they? She was a pretty little girl. Do you remember the night Von Gerarde was found stripped and tied to his door-handle? He assured me Irma had done it and had pawned his clothes.” Was Volker thinking that Blauenstein’s famous and admitted function should be resorted to as an alternative for himself by Kreisler? “Volker, I can speak to you plainly; isn’t that so? You are my friend. What’s more, already we have—” he laughed strongly and easily. “My journey has cost the devil of a lot. I shall be getting my allowance in a week or so. Could you lend me a small sum of money. When my money comes⸺” “Of course! But I am hard up. How much—?” These were three jerky efforts. “Oh, a hundred and fifty or two hundred marks.” Volker’s jaw dropped. “I am afraid, my dear Kreisler, I can’t—just now—manage that. My journey, too, cost me a lot. I’m very sorry. Let me see. I have my rent next week? I don’t see how I can manage⸺” Volker had a clean-shaven, depressed, and earnest face. He had always been honest and timid. Kreisler looked sulkily at the tablecloth and knocked the ash sharply off his cigarette into his cup. He said nothing. Volker became nervous. “Will a hundred marks be of any use?”