The usher stared impudently at Schleifmann. That dramatic language, that silk hat brushed away, that tie all in disorder, and that foreign accent--some poor devil, some Jewish beggar, no doubt. He did not even condescend to answer and took up his reading again. "I say, did you hear me?" stammered Schleifmann, incensed by so much insolence. "Yes or no, are you going to take my card in?" "When M. Pums rings, sir!" the usher reiterated, curling his mustache, his body still bent towards the paper. "I cannot go before he does." "You cannot!" Schleifmann almost shouted. "Very good! We shall see...." He walked towards a tall door painted brown which he supposed to be that of Pums' office. "Where are you going?" the usher asked, barring his advance with outstretched arms. The Galician gave a sharp push of his shoulders and threw the man aside. "I go where it pleases me! Get out of here, damn you!" Some of the dealers hurried to the call of the usher and surrounded Schleifmann, questioning him. Their intervention completed the Galician's exasperation. He had a sudden vision of the recent scene, a jostling mob, fists shaken, ugly faces. All that might be coming again! His voice became threatening. "What are you butting into this for?... We are not at the Bourse here! Leave me alone; the first man who lays a hand on me I will kick in the stomach!" "What! You, Schleifmann!" said Pums, who opened his door when he heard the fracas. "Is it you, talking about kicking people in the stomach?" The Galician took off his hat and said in lower tones: "Yes, ... it was I, M. Pums.... They wanted to prevent me from seeing you.... And it is an urgent matter. As I was telling that ill-bred usher, it is a matter of a man's life!" "But, at the present moment ..." the assistant director protested. "When a man's life is at stake, there is no such thing as a moment, M. Pums! Believe me.... Let me speak with you. Some day, you will thank me for this!" "All right!" said Pums, darting a sly wink of apology and connivance at the agents. Schleifmann followed him in and closed the door behind him. Pums sat at his desk of purple ebony; Schleifmann opposite him, his back to the door. He laid his hat on the table. "I shall be brief, M. Pums," he began. "In a word, as I told you, it is a matter of a man's life.... This man--I shall not conceal his name any longer--is my best friend, M. Cyprien Raindal, brother of M. Raindal of the Institute.... His situation you know already.... If he does not pay up, he is smashed.... And, I may add, if he is smashed, he will kill himself.... I came to ask you to have his account carried over...." "I would do it with pleasure, M. Schleifmann...." Pums murmured in German, preferring to use that tongue in delicate transactions.