iar consequences. Maria came out
of her dementia, and in a few days the household settled itself again
to its sordid regime and Maria went about her duties as usual. Then one
evening, about a week after the child's burial, Zerkow had asked Maria
to tell him the story of the famous service of gold plate for the
hundredth time.

Zerkow had come to believe in this story infallibly. He was immovably
persuaded that at one time Maria or Maria's people had possessed these
hundred golden dishes. In his perverted mind the hallucination had
developed still further. Not only had that service of gold plate once
existed, but it existed now, entire, intact; not a single burnished
golden piece of it was missing. It was somewhere, somebody had it,
locked away in that leather trunk with its quilted lining and round
brass locks. It was to be searched for and secured, to be fought for,
to be gained at all hazards. Maria must know where it was; by dint of
questioning, Zerkow would surely get the information from her. Some day,
if only he was persistent, he would hit upon the right combination of
questions, the right suggestion that would disentangle Maria's confused
recollections. Maria would tell him where the thing was kept, was
concealed, was buried, and he would go to that place and secure it, and
all that wonderful gold would be his forever and forever. This service
of plate had come to be Zerkow's mania.

On this particular evening, about a week after the child's burial, in
the wretched back room of the Junk shop, Zerkow had made Maria sit down
to the table opposite him--the whiskey bottle and the red glass tumbler
with its broken base between them--and had said:

"Now, then, Maria, tell us that story of the gold dishes again."

Maria stared at him, an expression of perplexity coming into her face.

"What gold dishes?" said she.

"The ones your people used to own in Central America. Come on, Maria,
begin, begin." The Jew craned himself forward, his lean fingers clawing
eagerly at his lips.

"What gold plate?" said Maria, frowning at him as she drank her whiskey.
"What gold plate? I don' know what you're talking about, Zerkow."

Zerkow sat back in his chair, staring at her.

"Why, your people's gold dishes, what they used to eat off of. You've
told me about it a hundred times."

"You're crazy, Zerkow," said Maria. "Push the bottle here, will you?"

"Come, now," insisted Zerkow, sweating with desire, "come, now, my girl,
d