"The Synagogue!" said Manasseh austerely. "Pah! What are you talking of, sir?" and he looked up cautiously for the first time at the picturesque figure. "What does the Synagogue want of me? I pay my _finta_ and every bill the rascals send me. Monstrous fine sums, too, egad--" "But you never go there!" "No, indeed, a man of fashion cannot be everywhere. Routs and rigotti play the deuce with one's time." "What a pity!" mused Manasseh ironically. "One misses you there. 'Tis no edifying spectacle--a slovenly rabble with none to set the standard of taste." The pale-faced beau's eyes lit up with a gleam of interest. "Ah, the clods!" he said. "You should yourself be a buck of the eccentric school by your dress. But I stick to the old tradition of elegance." "You had better stick to the old tradition of piety," quoth Manasseh. "Your father was a saint, you are a sinner in Israel. Return to the Synagogue, and herald your return by contributing to its finances. It has made a bad debt, and I am collecting money to reimburse it." The young exquisite yawned. "I know not who you may be," he said at length, "but you are evidently not one of us. As for the Synagogue I am willing to reform its dress, but dem'd if I will give a shilling more to its finances. Let your slovenly rabble of tradesmen pay the piper--I cannot afford it!" "_You_ cannot afford it!" "No--you see I have such extravagant tastes." "But I give you the opportunity for extravagance," expostulated Manasseh. "What greater luxury is there than that of doing good?" "Confound it, sir, I must ask you to go," said Beau Belasco coldly. "Do you not perceive that you are disconcerting my hairdresser?" "I could not abide a moment longer under this profane, if tasteful, roof," said Manasseh, backing sternly towards the door. "But I would make one last appeal to you, for the sake of the repose of your father's soul, to forsake your evil ways." "Be hanged to you for a meddler," retorted the young blood. "My money supports men of genius and taste--it shall not be frittered away on a pack of fusty shopkeepers." The _Schnorrer_ drew himself up to his full height, his eyes darted fire. "Farewell, then!" he hissed in terrible tones. "_You will make the third at Grace!_" [Illustration: "'FAREWELL!' HE HISSED."] He vanished--the dandy started up full of vague alarm, forgetting even his hair in the mysterious menace of that terrifying sibilation. "What do you mean?" he cried. "I mean," said Manasseh, reappearing at the door, "that since the world was created, only two men have taken their clothes with them to the world to come. One was Korah, who was swallowed down, the other was Elijah, who was borne aloft. It is patent in which direction the third will go." The sleeping chord of superstition vibrated under Manasseh's dexterous touch.