“Then I must go. What shall I pay?”
“Pay him his usual fee, two dollars. Not a cent more.”
The clairvoyant sighed heavily, and leaning his elbows on the table, covered his face with his hands. He remained in this posture for nearly a minute. Suddenly he dropped his hands, shook himself, and started up. His eyes were open. He stared wildly about, then seemed to slip back into his old self. The former unctuous, villanous expression returned to his face. He looked round for his half-smoked cigar, which he took up and relighted.
Peek drew two dollars from a purse, and offered them to him.
“I reckon you can afford more than that,” said Mr. Bender.
“That’s your regular fee,” replied Peek. “I haven’t been here half an hour.”
“O well, we won’t dispute about it,” said the medium, thrusting the rags into a pocket of his vest.
Peek left the house, the dinner-bell sounding as he passed out, and another whiff from the breath of the sausage-fiend that presided over that household pursuing him into the street.
The course he now took was through stately streets occupied by large and showy houses. He stopped before one, on the door-plate of which was the name, Lovell. Here his friend Lafour lived as coachman. For two weeks they had not met. Peek was about to pass round and ring at the servant’s door on the basement story of the side, when an orange was thrown from an upper window and fell near his feet. He looked up. An old black woman was gesticulating to him to go away. Peek was quick to take a hint. He strolled away as far as he could get without losing sight of the house. Soon he saw the old woman hobble out and approach him. He slipped into an arched passage-way, and she joined him.
“What’s the matter, mother?”