Blizzard turned his head slowly at the sound, and looked up at
her with agate eyes, coldly interrogative. There was no one else at the
moment within earshot.

Nevertheless before speaking the house-maid looked nervously into the
house behind her; then up the avenue, and down into Washington Square.
She was a girl of some beauty, but her face was most engaging from a
kind of waggish intelligence that it had.

"Tst!" she said.

The organ squeaked and rattled. It was manoeuvring for a position from
which to attack the "Danse Macabre." Blizzard indicated by a lift of
heavy eyebrows that he was all attention.

"You can trust Blake," she said.

Blizzard grunted. "Send him to me at six."

"Marrow Lane?"

He nodded, and turned from her with an air of finality. The house-maid
hesitated, drew a long breath, pulled in her head, and closed
the window.

A loose-jointed man in clerical garb came hurrying down the avenue. He
made longer swings with his right arm and longer strides with his right
leg than with his left. He had a white, thin face, and a look of worry
and anxiety. He was perhaps distressed to think that the world contained
many souls to whose salvation he would never be able to attend.
Perceiving the legless beggar, he stopped hurrying, sought in his
pocket, and found a few pennies. These he dropped into the tin cup.

"God bless you, reverend sir," said the beggar in a voice of deep irony.

"Don't," said the clergyman. He managed to look the beggar in the eyes.
"How many hats have we?" he asked in a quick whisper.

"We're on our fourth thousand."

The clergyman was visibly upset, "Six thousand to go," he muttered. "I
shall be caught."

The beggar smiled. "Come to me at six-thirty," he said.

The man of God's eyes brightened. "You'll help me again?"

"Tst," said the beggar. "Move on. Here's a plain-clothes man."

The shepherd moved on as if he had been pricked by an awl; since it was
not among the police that he felt called upon to separate the black
sheep from the white.

The plain-clothes man approached loitering. He might have been a citizen
in good standing and with nothing better to do than hobnob with whatever
persons interested him upon his idle saunterings.

"How many pairs of laces have you sold this morning?" he asked.

"Nary a pair, charitable sir," returned the beggar.

"Speaking of shoe-laces," said the plain-clothes man, "what is your
opinion of head-gear?"

"Bullish," said the be