,
Peter smiling and he frowning, and received into open palms exactly
enough to live on, without extras. And each Monday Peter pocketed his
cheerfully, and went back to his post, twirling his mustache as though
all the money of the realm jingled in his trousers.

To accept the inevitable, to smile over one's poverty, that is one
thing. But there was more to it. Peter made his money go amazingly far.
It was Peter, for instance, who on name-days had been able to present
the little cashier with a nosegay. Which had, by the way, availed him
nothing against the delicatessen offerings of the outside rival. When,
the summer before, the American Scenic Railway had opened to the public,
with much crossing of flags, the national emblem and the Stars and
Stripes, it was Peter who had invited the lady to an evening of thrills
on that same railway at a definite sum per thrill. Nay, more, as Herman
had seen with his own eyes, taken her afterward to a coffee-house, and
shared with her a litre of white wine. A litre, no less.

Herman himself had been to the Scenic Railway, but only because he
occupied a small room in the house where the American manager lived. The
manager had given tickets to Black Humbert, the concierge, but
Humbert was busy with other thing, and was, besides, chary of foreign
deviltries. So he had passed the tickets on.

It was Peter, then, who made the impossible possible, who wore good
clothes and did not have his boots patched, who went, rumor said, to the
Opera now and then, and followed the score on his own battered copy.

How?

Herman Spier had suspected him of many things; had secretly audited his
cash slips; had watched him for surreptitious parcels of silk. Once he
had thought he had him. But the package of Lyons silk, opened by the
proprietor at Herman's suggestion, proved to be material for a fancy
waistcoat, and paid for by Peter Niburg's own hand.

With what? Herman stood confused, even confounded, but still suspicious.
And now, this very day, he had stumbled on something. A great lady from
the Court had made a purchase, and had left, under a roll of silk, a
letter. There was no mistake. And Peter Niburg had put away the silk,
and pocketed the letter, after a swift glance over the little shop.

An intrigue, then, with Peter Niburg as the go-between, or--something
else. Something vastly more important, the discovery of which would
bring Herman prominence beyond his fellows in a certain secret order