en
him. His conductor led him down the corridor and was about to knock at
room eighty-nine when Abe seized him by the arm.

"Hold on," Abe whispered. "The door is open."

They tiptoed up to the half-open door and, holding himself well within
the shadow of the corridor, Abe peeped in. It was ten o'clock of a sunny
fall day, but the dark shades of room eighty-nine were drawn and the
electric lights were blazing away as though it were still midnight.
Beneath the lights was a small, oblong table at which sat three men,
and in front of each of them stood a small pile of chips. Marks Pasinsky
was dealing.

"A-ah, Katzen, you ruined that hand," Marks Pasinsky said as he
flipped out the cards three at a time. "Why didn't you lead it out
the ace of _Schueppe_ right at the start? What did you expect to do
with it? Eat it?"

Katzen nodded sleepily.

"The way I feel now, Pasinsky, I could eat most anything," he retorted.
"I could eat a round trip, if I had a cup of coffee with it, so hungry I
am. Let's have some supper."

"Supper!" Pasinsky cried. "What do you want supper for? The game is
young yet."

"Shall I tell you something?" the third hand--a stranger to Abe--said.
"You both played that hand like _Strohschneiders_. Pasinsky sits there
with two nines of trump in his hand and don't lead 'em through me. You
could have beat me by a million very easy."

He waved his hand with the palm outward and flapped his four fingers
derisively.

"You call yourself a pinochle player!" he jeered, and fell to twisting
his huge red mustache with his fingers.

Abe nodded an involuntary approval, and then as silently as they had
arrived he and the bell-boy retreated toward the elevator shaft.

"Dem guys is card fiends all right," the bell-boy commented. "Dey
started in at five o'clock last night."

As they waited for the elevator the strains of a piano came from the
floor below.

"What's that?" Abe exclaimed.

"Dat's anudder member of de gang," the bell-boy replied. "Dat's Mr.
Rabiner. He quit a big loser about one o'clock dis mornin'."

Abe handed his informant a dime.

"Take me to his room," he said.

The bell-boy led the way to the seventh floor and conducted Abe to the
door of Rabiner's room.

"Dat's a pretty said spiel dat guy is tearin' off," he commented. "It
makes me tink of a dago funeral."

Abe nodded. He knocked at the door, and Liszt's transcription of the
_Liebestod_ ceased immediately.

"Well?" Mozart Rabi