Von Barwig told him and he wrote it on the back of the manuscript. "All right, I'll attend to it," and the young man threw the songs carelessly into a drawer in his desk. Von Barwig thanked him, bowed politely, and walked slowly out.
"Who is that?" asked a young lady who had just arrived in a fashionable carriage and pair. She had been watching Von Barwig for the past few moments and was struck by the sweet, gentle sadness of his face.
"He's a sort of a composer, miss; that is, he writes songs and things. He's a music master, I fancy, in one of the poorer quarters of the city," said the clerk, taking out the manuscript he had just thrown into a drawer.
"Yes," he added, as she saw the address, "he has a studio at 970 Houston Street. Rather far downtown," he added.
"Nine hundred and seventy Houston Street," repeated the girl; "that must be near our settlement headquarters." She made some purchases, and a few moments later the footman opened the door, and she was whisked rapidly away by a pair of fine blooded horses.
"Who is that?" asked a fellow-clerk.
"Why don't you know?" asked the other with a slight tinge of superiority. "It's Miss Stanton, the heiress."
"Is that so? She's a beauty!"
"Yes," went on his informant, "her father is only worth about twenty-five millions!"
The other clerk whistled.