He withdrew the check saying nothing, accepting the reverse dully, too bewildered not to imagine the finger of retribution, and yielding all at once to that superstitious dread which attacks the scoffer amid the blasts of disaster. At this moment he feared and believed in God.
CHAPTER XX BOFINGER IN DESPAIR
Towards seven o'clock that evening Bofinger presented himself at the door of a large double-fronted mansion, in one of the side streets of Murray Hill. Since the morning he had eaten nothing. Hunger and fatigue had given him the appearances of an extreme dissipation. His feet burned with cold and from time to time, to resuscitate them, he plunged his hands in his breast. A fine bead of snow had risen on his clothes, fastened to his hair, and caked over the collar, which had rolled up on one side.
The butler, who came to his ring, viewing with disfavor this desperate figure, exclaimed:
"Be off now, we can't do anything for you."
Too miserable to resent the insolence, he took an attitude of supplication.
"This is Mr. Hyman Groll's, ain't it?" he said meekly.