“You gave us each five dollars and—and asked us to sing something and—what is it, Mr. Rosenstein. Are you ill?”
“Go—go!” gasped Rosenstein. “Get everybody and open the store again. Quickly. And tell them all not to speak of what happened yesterday. They—they—can—they can (gulp) keep the money. But the store must be opened and nobody must tell.”
He staggered out into the street. A policeman saw him clutching a lamp-post to steady himself.
“Are you sick, Mr. Rosenstein?” he asked. “You look pale. Can’t I get you a drink?”
Rosenstein recoiled in horror. “I am not a drinker!” he cried. Then he walked off, his head in a whirl, his heart sick with a sudden dread. He took a long walk, and when he felt that he had regained control of himself he returned to the store. It was open, and everything was going on as usual. And there was a man—a stranger—waiting for him. When he beheld Rosenstein the stranger’s face lit up.
“Good-morning!” he cried, cheerfully. “Sorry to trouble you so early, but this is rent day, and I need the money.”
Rosenstein turned pale. The saleswomen had turned their heads away with a discretion that was painfully apparent. Rosenstein’s eyes blinked rapidly several times. Then he said, huskily, “What money?”
The stranger looked at him in surprise.
“Don’t you remember this?” he asked, holding out a card. Rosenstein looked at him.
“Yes, this is my card. But what of it?”