e
young fellow alter his mind and follow him.

The little man led the way through the now darkened and empty shop,
lighted by one gas jet--past the long cutting counter flanked by shelves
bearing rolls of cloth and paper patterns, around the octagon stove
where the irons were still warm, and through the small door which led
into his private room. There he turned up a reading lamp, its light
softened by a green shade, and motioning Jack to a seat, said abruptly,
but politely--more as a request than a demand:

"I have a question to ask you, and you will please tell me the truth.
How much money do you want, and what do you want it for?"

Jack bit his lip. He wanted money, and he wanted it badly, but the
tailor had no right to pry into his private affairs--certainly not in
this way.

"Well, that was something I was talking to Uncle Peter about," he
rejoined stiffly. "I suppose you must have overheard."

"Yes, I did. Go on--how much money do you want, and what do you want it
for?"

"But, Mr. Cohen, I don't think I ought to bother you with my troubles.
They wouldn't interest you."

"Now, my dear young man, you will please not misunderstand me. You are
very intelligent, and you are very honest, and you always say what is in
your heart; I have heard you do it many times. Now say it to me."

There was no mistaking the tailor's earnestness. It evidently was not
mere curiosity which prompted him. It was something else. Jack wondered
vaguely if the Jew wanted to turn money-lender at a big percentage.

"Why do you want to know?" he asked; more to gain time to fathom his
purpose than with any intention of giving him the facts.

Isaac went to his desk, opened with great deliberation an ebony box,
took out two cigars, offered one to Jack, leaned over the lamp until his
own was alight, and took the chair opposite Jack's. All this time Jack
sat watching him as a child does a necromancer, wondering what he meant
to do next.

"Why do I want to know, Mr. Breen? Well, I will tell you. I have loved
Mr. Grayson for a great many years. When he goes out in the morning he
always looks through the glass window and waves his hand. If I am not in
sight, he opens the door and calls inside, 'Ah, good-morning, Isaac.' At
night, when he comes home, he waves his hand again. I know every line in
his face, and it is always a happy face. Once or twice a week he comes
in here, and we talk. That is his chair--the one you are sitting in.
Once or