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“When I got here I turned up the light and asked him to sit down while I searched my clothes–you can see what disgrace does for a man–asked a common, low, vulgar waiter to sit down in my room. He didn’t sit down–he just kept walking round and round, peering into the bookcases, handling the little things on the mantel, feeling the quality of the curtain that hangs there at the door–like a pawnbroker making up an inventory.

“Finally he said: ‘Ye got a nice place here’–the first words that had come from his lips since we left the restaurant. ‘The boss likes these jimcracks; he’s got a lot o’ thim up where he lives. I seen him pay twinty dollars to a Jew-dago for one o’ THIM.’ And he pointed to my row of miniatures.

“By this time I was face to face with the awful truth. There was nothing in the vest-pocket, nor in the cup, and there was nothing in the drawer. The only money I had was the two-dollar bill which had been left over after paying Mrs. Jones. I spread it out before him and looked him straight in the eye–fearlessly–that he might know I wasn’t telling him an untruth.

“‘My good man,’ I said in my kindest voice, ‘I was mistaken. I find I have no money. I have paid away every cent except these two dollars; take this bill and let me come in to-morrow and pay the balance.’

“‘Good man be damned!’ he said. ‘I don’t want yer two dollars. I’ll take this and call it square.’ Then he put my precious Cosway in his pocket and without another word walked out of the room.”

“But wouldn’t they give it back to you when you went for it?” I blurted out.

Peter leaned back in his chair and drummed on the arm with his fingers.

“To tell the truth, I have been ashamed to go. I suppose they will give it back when I ask them. And every day I intended going and paying them the money, and every day I shun the street as if a plague was there. I will go some time, but not now. Please don’t ask me.”

“Have you seen none of them since?” inquired another of his visitors.

“Only the Bostonian. He walked up to me while I was having my lunch in Nassau Street yesterday.

“‘I came out better than you did,’ he said. ‘The pass was good. I used it the next day. Just home from the Hub.'”

“Accomplice, maybe,” remarked Peter’s third visitor, “just fooling you with that architect yarn.”

“Buncoed that pass out of somebody else,” suggested the second visitor.

“Perhaps,” Peter continued. “I give it up. It’s one of the things that can never be explained. The Bostonian was polite, but he still thinks me a cheat. He let me down as easy as he could, being a gentleman, but I can never forget that he saw me come in with them and order the dinner, and that then I tried to sneak out of paying for it. Oh, it’s dreadful! Dreadful!”

Peter settled in his seat until only the top of his red skull cap showed above the back of his easy chair. For some minutes he did not speak, then he said slowly, and as if talking to himself:

“Mean, mean people to serve me so!”

Some days later I again knocked at Peter’s door. I had determined, with or without his consent, to go myself to Foscari’s, redeem the miniature and explain the circumstances, and let them know exactly who Peter was. My hand had hardly touched the panel when his cheery voice rang out:

“Whoever you are, come in!”

He had sprung from his chair now and had advanced to greet me.

“Oh, is it you! So glad–come over here before you get your coat off. Look!”

“The Cosway! You paid the bill and redeemed it?”

“Didn’t cost me a cent.”

“They sent it to you, then, and apologized?”