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hustling throng came quickly forward. In its midst some one was being propelled towards the entrance. Although he was shouting at the top of his voice, he appeared to be offering no actual resistance, but seemed rather to be regarding the proceedings as a joke. In spite of the hubbub Mr. Bernstein's accents reached my ear.

"Did you ever hear anything like him? Isn't he a beauty? And that's the man who's had I don't know how much cash out of me—a hatful! And that's how he goes on!"

I was indifferent to Mr. Bernstein's lamentations. As the crowd came nearer I was beginning to ask myself if I was dreaming; if, again, I was about to become the victim of a nightmare imagining. I turned to Miss Moore.

"Hadn't you—better go? Hadn't I better—get you out of this?"

I was conscious that my voice was a little 240