Paul turned, but his custodian seemed unconscious of him. The performance reached an end amidst a hurricane of applause, and Herr Pauer came back several times to bow his acknowledgments. The fat man seemed to wake, and, with a hand on Paul’s shoulder, pushed him back amongst the props and stays until they reached the canvas room again. Somebody had placed a ragged cane-seated chair near the table, and Herr Pauer, who was already waiting, motioned his visitor into it. He seated himself on the table, with one trim leg swinging to and fro, and lit a cigar.
‘Now,’ he said, rolling a cloud of smoke from his lips, ‘what have you run away from?’
‘I haven’t run away from anything,’ said Paul.
‘Ah, well! we shall see about that. When I saw you on Saturday night you were flush of money. Now—so my man tells me—you call yourself a starving vagabond, and you run errands for a shilling. You are wet through, and you are mud all over. You have no hat, my young friend. You may just as well make a clean breast of it.’
‘I’ve nothing to make a clean breast of,’ Paul answered sullenly.
‘Oh yes, you have,’ said Herr Pauer. ‘You were very tipsy on Saturday night. Were you ever tipsy before?’
‘No,’ said Paul.
‘You had money,’ said Herr Pauer. ‘Was it your own?’
‘Yes.’
The answer was defiant and angry.