He left his pigeon-hole unshuttered, and to Lucas, while he waited, it seemed that several men came to it and glanced at him forbiddingly. None spoke; they just looked as though in righteous indignation at his presence, with seventy-five cents in his pocket, in that high temple of finance. Then the whiskered and spectacled face fitted itself again into the aperture.
"So you are Mr. Robert H. Lugas, are you?" it inquired. "Den vere vas you in de year 1886?"
"Where was I?" repeated Lucas vaguely. "Let me see! 1886—yes! I was in Russia then—in Tambov."
"Yes." The other's regard was keen. "An' now tell me aboud de man dat lived obbosite to you in Tambov?"
"Do you mean the silversmith?" said Lucas. The other nodded. "Oh, him! He was a Jew. They expelled him."
"And his vife?"
"His wife! They expelled her too," he answered. "I never heard of her again."
"Vot vas de last you heard of her?"
"Oh, that!"
Lucas was staring at him vacantly. It did not occur to him that, by not answering promptly, he might give ground for doubt and suspicion. The question had re-illuminated in his mind—perhaps for the first time since the event which it touched—that night of twenty years before. He flavored again the heady and effervescent vintage of strong action, of crowded happenings and poignant emotions.