ad so eloquently disclaimed earlier in the day the
propaganda by force, by dagger, and dynamite?--He had hardly asked
himself the question when there came a fierce rapping of wooden clubs at
door and window. Instantly a brooding hush like that which precedes a
hurricane fell upon the gathering. But Yetta did not long remain silent.

"Quick, Arthur, play the Star-Spangled Banner! It's the police. I want
to save these poor souls--" she added, with a gulp in her throat;
"quick, you idiot, the Star-Spangled Banner." But Arthur was almost
fainting. His ringers fell listlessly on the keys, and they were too
weak to make a sound. The police! he moaned, as the knocking deepened
into banging and shouting. What a scandal! What a disgrace! He could
never face his own world after this! To be caught with a lot of crazy
anarchists in a den like this!--Smash, went the outside door! And the
newspapers! They would laugh him out of town. He, Arthur Schopenhauer
Wyartz, the Amateur Anarch! He saw the hideous headlines. Why, the very
daily in which some of his fortune was invested would be the first to
mock him most!

The assault outside increased. He leaped to the floor, where Yetta was
surrounded by an excited crowd. He plucked her sleeve. She gazed at him
disdainfully.

"For God's sake, Yetta, get me out of this--this awful scrape. My
mother, my sisters--the disgrace!" She laughed bitterly.

"You poor chicken among hawks! But I'll help you--follow me." He reached
the cellar stairs, and she showed him a way by which he could walk
safely into the alley, thence to the street back of their building. He
shook her hand with the intensity of a man in the clutches of the ague.

"But you--why don't you go with me?" he asked, his teeth chattering.

The brittle sound of glass breaking was heard. She answered, as she took
his feverish hand:--

"Because, you brave revolutionist, I must stick to my colours.
Farewell!" And remounting the stairs, she saw the bluecoats awaiting
her.

"I hope the police will catch him anyhow," she said. It was her one
relapse into femininity, and as she quietly surrendered she did not
regret it.

III

Old Koschinsky's store on the avenue was the joy of the neighbourhood.
For hours, their smeary faces flattened against the glass, the children
watched the tireless antics of the revolving squirrels; the pouter
pigeons expand their breasts into feathered balloons; the goldfish, as
they stolidly swam, their lit