“Reisen.”
The Doctor reflected a moment.
“I believe I recollect him. Is he away up on Benjamin street, close to the river, among the cotton-presses?”
“Yes. Thalia street they call it now. He says”—
“Does he keep a large bakery?” interrupted the Doctor.
“The ‘Star Bakery,’” said Richling, brightening again. “He says he knows you, and that, if you will give me just one line of recommendation, he will put me in charge of his accounts and give me a trial. And a trial’s all I want, Doctor. I’m not the least fearful of the result.”
“Richling,” said Dr. Sevier, slowly picking up his paper-folder and shaking it argumentatively, “where are the letters I advised you to send for?”
Richling sat perfectly still, taking a long, slow breath through his nostrils, his eyes fixed emptily on his questioner. He was thinking, away down at the bottom of his heart,—and the Doctor knew it,—that this was the unkindest question, and the most cold-blooded, that he had ever heard. The Doctor shook his paper-folder again.
“You see, now, as to the bare fact, I don’t know you.”
Richling’s jaw dropped with astonishment. His eye lighted up resentfully. But the speaker went on:—