publisher, nominally at first and actually when
I've taught him the ropes a little."

XII.

Fulkerson stopped and looked at March, whom he saw lapsing into a
serious silence. Doubtless he divined his uneasiness with the facts that
had been given him to digest. He pulled out his watch and glanced at it.
"See here, how would you like to go up to Forty-sixth street with me,
and drop in on old Dryfoos? Now's your chance. He's going West tomorrow,
and won't be back for a month or so. They'll all be glad to see you, and
you'll understand things better when you've seen him and his family. I
can't explain."

March reflected a moment. Then he said, with a wisdom that surprised
him, for he would have liked to yield to the impulse of his curiosity:
"Perhaps we'd better wait till Mrs. March comes down, and let things
take the usual course. The Dryfoos ladies will want to call on her as
the last-comer, and if I treated myself 'en garcon' now, and paid the
first visit, it might complicate matters."

"Well, perhaps you're right," said Fulkerson. "I don't know much about
these things, and I don't believe Ma Dryfoos does, either." He was on
his legs lighting another cigarette. "I suppose the girls are getting
themselves up in etiquette, though. Well, then, let's have a look at the
'Every Other Week' building, and then, if you like your quarters there,
you can go round and close for Mrs. Green's flat."

March's dormant allegiance to his wife's wishes had been roused by his
decision in favor of good social usage. "I don't think I shall take the
flat," he said.

"Well, don't reject it without giving it another look, anyway. Come on!"

He helped March on with his light overcoat, and the little stir they
made for their departure caught the notice of the old German; he looked
up from his beer at them. March was more than ever impressed with
something familiar in his face. In compensation for his prudence in
regard to the Dryfooses he now indulged an impulse. He stepped across to
where the old man sat, with his bald head shining like ivory under
the gas-jet, and his fine patriarchal length of bearded mask taking
picturesque lights and shadows, and put out his hand to him.

"Lindau! Isn't this Mr. Lindau?"

The old man lifted himself slowly to his feet with mechanical
politeness, and cautiously took March's hand. "Yes, my name is Lindau,"
he said, slowly, while he scanned March's face. Then he broke into
a long cry. "Ah-h-h-h-h