"Mr. Meinert says you must pay," said the waiter. "Four drinks—sixty cents."
Mr. Feuerstein laughed sardonically.
"Pay! Ha—ha! Always pay! Another drink, wretch, and I shall pay for all—for all!" He laughed, with much shaking of the shoulders and rolling of the eyes.
When the waiter had disappeared he muttered: "I can wait no longer." He took the knife, held it at arm's length, blade down. He turned his head to the left and closed his eyes. Then with a sudden tremendous drive he sent the long, narrow blade deep into his neck. The blood spurted out, his breath escaped from between his lips with long, shuddering, subsiding hisses. His body stiffened, collapsed, rolled to the floor.
Mr. Feuerstein was dead—with empty pockets and the drinks unpaid for.
XI
MR. FEUERSTEIN'S CLIMAX
When Otto came to see Hilda that evening she was guiltily effusive in her greeting and made up her mind that, as soon as they were alone, she must tell him what she had all but done. But first there was the game of pinochle which Otto must lose to her father. As they sat at their game she was at the zither-table, dreamily playing May Breezes as she watched Otto and thought how much more comfortable she was in his strong, loyal love than in the unnatural strain of Mr. Feuerstein's ecstasies. "'Work and love and home,'" she murmured, in time to her music. "Yes, father is right. They ARE the best."
August came in and said: "Hilda, here are two men who want to see you."