"Only the Bostonian. He walked up to me while I was having my lunch in Nassau Street yesterday.
"'I came out better than you did,' he said. 'The pass was good. I used it the next day. Just home from the Hub.'"
"Accomplice, maybe," remarked Peter's third visitor, "just fooling you with that architect yarn."
"Buncoed that pass out of somebody else," suggested the second visitor.
"Perhaps," Peter continued. "I give it up. It's one of the things that can never be explained. The Bostonian was polite, but he still thinks me a cheat. He let me down as easy as he could, being a gentleman, but I can never forget that he saw me come in with them and order the dinner, and that then I tried to sneak out of paying for it. Oh, it's dreadful! Dreadful!"
Peter settled in his seat until only the top of his red skull cap showed above the back of his easy chair. For some minutes he did not speak, then he said slowly, and as if talking to himself:
"Mean, mean people to serve me so!"
Some days later I again knocked at Peter's door. I had determined, with or without his consent, to go myself to Foscari's, redeem the miniature and explain the circumstances, and let them know exactly who Peter was. My hand had hardly touched the panel when his cheery voice rang out:
"Whoever you are, come in!"
He had sprung from his chair now and had advanced to greet me.