The Barowsky Brothers' bank building is the show-place of the district. It is a staring white structure covered with gilt business signs and adorned with abortive minarets that give it an air distinctly Oriental. The entrance hall and the banking-rooms are sumptuous. They recall the Arabian Nights and the word-painting of a circus poster. Mirrors, gilding, mosaics--it is all a dream of luxury and impresses one with a realizing sense of the financial standing of the Barowsky Brothers. You must have a good front in the Yiddish country if you expect to handle other people's money. Esper Indiman, adjuster of averages, occupied a suite of rooms on the fifth floor. I proceeded thither and found him in. We sat down and smoked amicably. "How is business?" I asked. "Have you adjusted many averages to-day? And, by-the-way, I'm rather taken with the title of your new trade. 'Adjuster of averages'--there's an imposing note of omnipotence in the words." "It's a perfectly legitimate occupation. You'll find it listed in the business directory." "Of course, and never mind the details. I'm satisfied with its face value, a brevet of vice-gerency. God knows there are plenty of averages to be adjusted in this weary old world." "Well, I may have some accounts to balance before I take down my sign," said Indiman, with a grim little smile. "I'm glad you came in to-day, Thorp; I've been wanting to have a talk with you." "Fire away," I answered, flippantly. "Come into the back room," and he led the way. The suite ran through the building. There was a good-sized room facing on the square, fitted up with ordinary office furniture; back of that a bath-room, and then the rear office, which had been turned into a bachelor's living-room. There were bookcases, rugs, pictures, a big mahogany writing-table, an open fireplace, easy-chairs--everything to make life comfortable. "And the couch over there is my bed," concluded Indiman. "I'm pretty well fixed, you see." "Decidedly so." "Intellectual diversion in abundance; even the artistic element is not wholly wanting." He stepped over to a table in the far corner; a phonographic machine of some kind stood upon it. Indiman touched a lever, and again I heard that unforgettable melody, "Ah, fors e lui," and in her voice--her voice! A cry escaped me. Indiman pushed me back into my chair. "Be good enough to listen," he said, and I obeyed. "While you have been laid up," he began, "I have been amusing myself with a little theory building. I had taken the liberty to sequestrate the remarkable phonographic apparatus of your quondam friend Dr. Gonzales; in fact, I carried it away in the same carriage with your honorable self from the house of the Philadelphia 'quizzing-glass.' The police didn't notice--that was all.