ors of Dannevig's excesses reached me
from various sources. He had obtained a position as interpreter for
one of the Immigration Companies, and made semi-monthly excursions to
Quebec, taking charge of the immigrants, and conducting them to
Chicago. The opportunity for revealing his past history to Miss Pfeifer
somehow never presented itself, although I continued to call
frequently, and spent many delightful evenings with her and her uncle.
However, I consoled myself with the reflection that the occasion for
such a revelation no longer existed, and I had no desire needlessly to
persecute a man whose iniquities could, at all events, harm no one but
himself. And still, knowing from experience his talent for occult
diplomacy, I took the precaution (without even remotely implicating
Miss Hildegard) to put Mr. Pfeifer on his guard. One evening, as we
were sitting alone in his library enjoying a confidential smoke, I
related to him, merely as part of the secret history of our paper,
some of Dannevig's questionable exploits while in our employ. Pfeifer
was hugely entertained, and swore that Dannevig was the most
interesting rascal he had ever heard of.

A few days later I was surprised by a call from Dannevig, who seemed
again to be in the full bloom of prosperity. And yet, that
inexpressible flavor of aristocracy, and that absolute fineness of
type which at our first meeting had so fascinated me, had undergone
some subtle change which was almost too fleeting for words to express.
To put it bluntly, he had not borne transplantation well. Like the
finest European grapes, he had thriven in our soil, but turned out a
coarser product than nature intended. He talked with oppressive
brilliancy about everything under the sun, patronized me (as indeed he
had always done), and behaved with a certain effusive amiability, the
impudence of which was simply masterly.

"By the way," he cried, with fine unconcern, "speaking of beer, how is
your friend, Miss Pfeifer? Her old man, I believe, owns a good deal of
stock in this paper, quite a controlling interest, I am told."

"It will not pay to make love to her on that ground, Dannevig," I
answered, gravely, knowing well enough that he had come on a
diplomatic errand. "Mr. Pfeifer is, in the first place, not her
father, and secondly, he has at least a dozen other heirs."

"Make love to Miss Pfeifer!" he exclaimed, with a hearty laugh. "Why,
I should just as soon think of making love to Gener