it not in her marvellous marble
music-room--one of the boasts of Chicago--that he had mentally seen
himself enthroned as the lord of the feast? And instead of these
Olympian visions, lo! a typewritten note to clench his fist over--a
note from a secretary regretting that the state of Mrs. Wilhammer's
health forbade the pleasure of receiving a maestro with such
credentials. _Rishus--Rishus_ indubitable!

II

Turning with morbid interest to look after the retreating millionaire,
he found him in converse with a feminine figure at the open door of a
deck-cabin. Could this be the great She, the arbitress of art? He
moved nearer. Why, this was but a girl--nay, unless his instinct was
at fault, a Jewish girl--a glorious young Jewess, of that radiant
red-haired type which the Russian Pale occasionally flowered with.
What was she doing with this Christian Colossus? He tried vainly to
see her left hand; the mere possibility that she might be Mrs.
Wilhammer shocked his Semitic instinct. Wilhammer disappeared
within--the relation was obviously intimate--but the girl still stood
at the door, a brooding magical figure.

Almost a sense of brotherhood moved him to speak to her, but he
conquered the abnormal and incorrect impulse, contenting himself to
walk past her with a side-glance, while at the end of the
deck-promenade, instead of returning on his footsteps, he even arched
his path round to the windy side. After some minutes of buffeting he
returned chilled to his prior pacing ground. She was still there, but
had moved under the same electric light which had illuminated
Wilhammer's face, and she was reading a letter. As his walk carried
him past her, he was startled to see tears rolling down those radiant
cheeks. A slight exclamation came involuntarily from him; the girl,
even more startled to be caught thus, relaxed her grip of the
letter--a puff of wind hastened to whirl it aloft. Rozenoffski grasped
at it desperately, but it eluded him, and then descending sailed
sternwards. He gave chase, stumbling over belated chairs and
deck-quoits, but at last it was safe in his clutch, and as he handed
it to the agitated owner whom he found at his elbow, he noted with a
thrill that the characters were cursive Hebrew.

'How can I zank you, sir!' Her Teutonic-touched American gave him the
courage to reply gallantly in German:

'By letting me help you more seriously.'

'_Ach, mein Herr_'--she jumped responsively into German--'it was