ebensternstrasse so soon after being peremptorily put out; he
had come to the club with the intention of clinching his resolution with
a game of cribbage. But fate was playing into his hands. There was no
cribbage player round, and Peter himself sat across deeply immersed in a
magazine. McLean rose, not stealthily, but without unnecessary noise.

So far so good. Peter turned a page and went on reading. McLean
sauntered to a window, hands in pockets. He even whistled a trifle,
under his breath, to prove how very casual were his intentions. Still
whistling, he moved toward the door. Peter turned another page, which
was curiously soon to have read two columns of small type without
illustrations.

Once out in the hall McLean's movements gained aim and precision. He got
his coat, hat and stick, flung the first over his arm and the second on
his head, and--

"Going out?" asked Peter calmly.

"Yes, nothing to do here. I've read all the infernal old magazines until
I'm sick of them." Indignant, too, from his tone.

"Walking?"

"Yes."

"Mind if I go with you?"

"Not at all."

Peter, taking down his old overcoat from its hook, turned and caught the
boy's eye. It was a swift exchange of glances, but illuminating--Peter's
whimsical, but with a sort of grim determination; McLean's sheepish, but
equally determined.

"Rotten afternoon," said McLean as they started for the stairs. "Half
rain, half snow. Streets are ankle-deep."

"I'm not particularly keen about walking, but--I don't care for this
tomb alone."

Nothing was further from McLean's mind than a walk with Peter that
afternoon. He hesitated halfway down the upper flight.

"You don't care for cribbage, do you?"

"Don't know anything about it. How about pinochle?"

They had both stopped, equally determined, equally hesitating.

"Pinochle it is," acquiesced McLean. "I was only going because there was
nothing to do."

Things went very well for Peter that afternoon--up to a certain point.
He beat McLean unmercifully, playing with cold deliberation. McLean
wearied, fidgeted, railed at his luck. Peter played on grimly.

The club filled up toward the coffee-hour. Two or three women, wives of
members, a young girl to whom McLean had been rather attentive before
he met Harmony and who bridled at the abstracted bow he gave her. And,
finally, when hope in Peter was dead, one of the women on Anna's list.

Peter, laying down pairs and marking up score, went over Har