The others rose; only Fernet remained seated. “What,” said another, “haven’t you finished?” “Yes,” returned Fernet, gloomily, “but I am in no hurry.” He sat there for an hour, alone, holding his head between his hands. Berthe cleared off the soiled plates, wiped the oilcloth-covered tables, began noisily to lay the pewter knives and forks for the morning meal. At this Fernet stirred himself and, looking up at her, said: “Tell me who was the hunchback who came and sat with us? Does he live here—in San Francisco?” “His name is Flavio Minetti,” she replied, setting the lid back upon an uncovered sugar-bowl. “Beyond that I know nothing. But they tell me that he is quite mad.” “Ah, that accounts for many things,” said Fernet, smiling with recovered assurance. “I must say he is strangely fascinating.” Berthe looked at him sharply and shrugged. “For my part, he makes me shiver every time I see him come in the door. When I serve him my hand shakes. And he continually cracks his fingers and says to me: ‘Come, Berthe, what can I do to make you smile? Would you laugh if I were to dance for you? I would give half my life only to see you laughing. Why are you so sad?’ ... No, I wish he would never come again.” “Nevertheless, I should like to see him once more.” “He comes always on Thursdays for chicken.” “Thanks,” said Fernet, as he put on his hat. ―――― Fernet walked directly to his lodgings that night. He had a room in an old-fashioned house on the east side of Telegraph Hill. The room was shabby enough, but it caught glimpses of the bay and there was a gnarled pepper-tree that came almost to its windows and gave Fernet a sense of eternal, though grotesque, spring. Even his landlord was unusual—a professional beggar who sat upon the curb, with a ridiculous French poodle for company, and sold red and green pencils. This landlord was sitting out by the front gate as Fernet entered. “Ah, Pollitto,” said Fernet, halting before the old man and snapping his fingers at the poodle who lay crouched before his master, “I see you are enjoying this fine warm night.” “You are wrong,” replied the beggar. “I am merely sitting here hoping that some one will come along and rent my front room.” “Then it is vacant?” “Naturally,” replied the old man, with disagreeable brevity, and Fernet walked quickly up to his room. “Why do I live in such a place?” he asked himself, surveying the four bare walls. “Everything about it is abominable, and that beggar, Pollitto, is a scoundrel. I shall move next week.” He crossed over to the window and flung it open. The pepper-tree lay before him, crouching in the moonlight. He thought at once of Flavio Minetti.