which she carefully pulled sliding doors. Bean heard the murmur of her voice.
He waited anxiously. His Napoleon self was already fading. If only they would tell him something "good." Little he cared for the twenty dollars. He could get along by borrowing seventeen-seventy-nine from Metzeger. The voice still murmured. Only the well-fitting doors prevented Bean from hearing something that would have been of interest to him.
"That you, Ed?" the Countess was saying. "Listen here. Member th' one I told you about, thinks he's the original N. B.—you know who—well he's a repeater; here now wantin' t' know who he was before then, who he was first y'understand. An' say, I ain't got the right dope for that an' I want you to get over here quick's you can an' give him about a ten-minute spiel. Wha's that? Well, they's twenty, an' I split with you. But listen here, Ed, I get the idee this party's worth nursin' along. I dunno, something about him. That's why I'm tellin you. I want it done right. Course, I could do enough stallin' muself t' cop the twenty; tell him Julius Cæsar or the King of China or somebody, but I ain't got the follow-up, an' you can't tell how much he might be good for later. Take my tip: he's a natural born believer. Sure, twenty! All right!"
The doors slid back and the Countess reappeared between the curtains.
"I'm 'fraid I'll have to disappoint you," she began. "The Professer was called out t' give
