It was a clean case of mistaken identity, if there ever was one. It happened in a restaurant." He winked. And that is how the little violinist came to be the possessor of an overcoat with a sable collar and a soft leather lining. He needed it now, not only when he ventured upon the chilly streets but when he remained indoors. In truth, he found it much warmer walking the streets than sitting in his fireless room, or even in going to bed. It was a far cry from the dapper, dreamy-eyed courtier who kissed the chapped knuckles of the Princess Mariana on Wednesday night to the shrinking, pinched individual who threaded his way on Friday through the cramped lanes that led to the rear of the pawn-shop presided over by Mrs. Jacobs. And an incredibly vast gulf lay between the Princess Mariana and the female Shylock who peered at him over a glass show-case filled with material pledges in the shape of watches, chains, rings, bracelets, and other gaudy tributes left by a shifting constituency. "Well?" she demanded, fixing him with a cold, offensive stare. "What do you want?" He turned down the collar of his thin coat, and straightened his slight figure in response to this unfriendly greeting. "I came to see if you would allow me to take my overcoat for a few days,--until this cold spell is over,--with the understanding--" "Nothing doing," said she curtly. "Six dollars due on it." "But I have not the six dollars, madam. Surely you may trust me." "Why didn't you bring your fiddle along? You could leave it in place of the coat. Go and get it and I'll see what I can do." "I am to play tonight at the house of a Mr. Carpenter. He has heard of me through our friend Mr. Trotter, his chauffeur. You know Mr. Trotter, of course." "Sure I know him, and I don't like him. He insulted me once." "Ah, but you do not understand him, madam. He is an Englishman and he may have tried to be facetious or even pleasant in the way the English--" "Say, don't you suppose I know when I'm insulted? When a cheap guy like that comes in here with a customer of mine and tells me I'm so damned mean they won't even let me into hell when I die,--well, if you don't call that an insult, I'd like to know what it is. Don't talk to me about that bum!" "Is _that_ all he said?" involuntarily fell from the lips of the violinist, as if, to his way of thinking, Mr. Trotter's remark was an out-and-out compliment. "Surely you have no desire to go to hell when you die." "No, I haven't, but I don't want anybody coming in here telling me to my face that there'd be a revolution down there if I _tried_ to get in. I've got as much right there as anybody, I'd have him know. Cough up six or get out. That's all I've got to say to you, my little man." "It is freezing cold in my room. I--" "Don't blame me for that. I don't make the weather. And say, I'm busy. Cough up or--clear out." "You will not let me have it for a few days if I--"