Rosek lit a cigarette but did not sit down. He struck even Fiorsen by his unsmiling pallor.
“You had better look out for Mr. Wagge, Gustav; he came to me yesterday. He has no music in his soul.”
Fiorsen sat up.
“Satan take Mr. Wagge! What can he do?”
“I am not a lawyer, but I imagine he can be unpleasant—the girl is young.”
Fiorsen glared at him, and said:
“Why did you throw me that cursed girl?”
Rosek answered, a little too steadily:
“I did not, my friend.”
“What! You did. What was your game? You never do anything without a game. You know you did. Come; what was your game?”