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 procured his pay although he found it in his pocket and right to a penny. He had no recollection of where he had walked or by what route he had come to the pond. He could recall but one thing, and that was Phinny's hoarse bleat of derision as he left the storehouse.

"I have made the breath come hard trying to catch you," spoke up a gentle voice at his elbow.

He turned and his face lighted as he beheld the frail figure of a man with snow-white hair and white mustaches. It was Etienne Clair, an old and very eccentric Frenchman who roomed near him on upper Market Street.

"I'm in a devil of a mess, Papa Clair," he groaned, feeling as free to crave sympathy as if the ancient had been a woman.

"I followed you many streets. I thought you mad. The devil's to pay? Then there must be work for the knife. We will fix it together!" cried Clair, speaking his English with scarcely a trace of accent. "I have lived long on the river and at the foot of the river. I have seen many troubles eased with the knife. But never have I been so glad"

"The knife will hardly do in this case," morosely broke in Lander.