In the morning, Stefan, retrieving his canvases from Miss Mason's flat, sought out the dealer, Jensen. Walking from Fifth Avenue, he was surprised at the cheap appearance of the houses on Fourth, only one block away. He had expected to find Adolph's brother in such a great stone building as those he had just passed, with their show windows empty save for one piece of tapestry or sculpture, or a fine painting brilliant against its background of dull velvet. Instead, the number on Fourth Avenue proved a tumbledown house of two stories, with tattered awnings flapping above its shop-window, which was almost too grimy to disclose the wares within. These were a jumble of bric-a-brac, old furniture of doubtful value, stained prints, and one or two blackened oil paintings in tarnished frames. With ominous misgivings, Stefan entered the half-opened door. The place was a confused medley of the flotsam and jetsam of dwelling houses, and appeared to him much more like a pawnbroker's than the business place of an art dealer. From its dusty shadows a stooped figure emerged, gray-haired and spectacled, which waited for Stefan to speak with an air of patient humbleness. “This isn't Mr. Jensen's, is it?” Stefan asked, feeling he had mistaken the number. “My name is Jensen. What can I do for you?” replied the man in a toneless voice. “You are Adolph's brother?” incredulously. At the name the gray face flushed pathetically. Jensen came forward, pressing his hands together, and peered into Stefan's face. “Yes, I am,” he answered, “and you are Mr. Byrd that he wrote to me about. I'd hoped you weren't coming, after all. Well,” and he waved his hand, “you see how it is.” Stefan was completely dismayed. “Why,” he stammered, “I thought you were so successful--” “I'm sorry.” Jensen dropped his eyes, picking nervously at his coat. “You see, I am the eldest brother; a man does not like to admit failure. I may be sold up any time now. I wanted Adolph not to guess, so I--wrote--him--differently.” He flushed painfully again. Stefan was silent, too taken aback for speech. “I tell you, Mr. Byrd,” Jensen stammered on, striking his hands together impotently, “for all its wealth, this is a city of dead hopes. It's been a long fight, but it's over now.... Yes, you are Adolph's friend, and I can't so much as buy a sketch from you. It's quite, quite over.” And suddenly he sank his head in his hands, while Stefan stood, infinitely embarrassed, clutching his roll of canvases. After a moment Jensen, mastering himself, lifted his head. His lined, prematurely old face showed an expression at once pleading and dignified. “I didn't dream what I wrote would do any harm, Mr. Byrd, but now of course you will have to explain to Adolph--?” Stefan, moved to sympathy, held out his hand. “Look here, Jensen, you've put me in an awful hole, worse than you know. But why should I say anything? Let Adolph think we're both millionaires,” and he grinned ruefully.