Seiden turned pale, and leaving half a plateful of soup uninhaled he rose from the table and followed the proprietor to the latter's private office. There sat Philip Sternsilver gasping for breath.
"Murderer!" he shouted as Seiden entered. "You are shedding my blood."
"Koosh, Sternsilver!" Seiden hissed. "Ain't you got no shame for the people at all?"
"Where is my Bessie—my life?" Sternsilver wailed. "Without you are making any inquiries at all you are marrying her to a loafer. Me, I am nothing! What is it to you I am pretty near killed in the street last night and must got to go to a hospital! For years I am working for you already, day in, day out, without I am missing a single forenoon even—and you are treating me like this!"
It was now Seiden's turn to gasp.
"What d'ye mean?" he cried, searching in his coat pocket. "Ain't you wrote me this here letter?"
He produced the missive received by him that morning and handed it to Sternsilver, who, unnoticed by the excited Seiden, returned it without even glancing at its contents.
"I never seen it before," he declared. "Why should I write printing? Don't you suppose I can write writing, Mr. Seiden?"
"Who did send it, then?" Seiden asked.
"It looks to me"—said Sternsilver, who grew calmer as Seiden became more agitated—"it looks to me like that sucker Fatkin writes it."