surprised at the cheap appearance of the houses on Fourth, only one block
away. He had expected to find Adolph's brother in such a great stone
building as those he had just passed, with their show windows empty save
for one piece of tapestry or sculpture, or a fine painting brilliant
against its background of dull velvet. Instead, the number on Fourth
Avenue proved a tumbledown house of two stories, with tattered awnings
flapping above its shop-window, which was almost too grimy to disclose
the wares within. These were a jumble of bric-a-brac, old furniture of
doubtful value, stained prints, and one or two blackened oil paintings in
tarnished frames. With ominous misgivings, Stefan entered the half-opened
door. The place was a confused medley of the flotsam and jetsam of
dwelling houses, and appeared to him much more like a pawnbroker's than
the business place of an art dealer. From its dusty shadows a stooped
figure emerged, gray-haired and spectacled, which waited for Stefan to
speak with an air of patient humbleness.

"This isn't Mr. Jensen's, is it?" Stefan asked, feeling he had mistaken
the number.

"My name is Jensen. What can I do for you?" replied the man in a toneless
voice.

"You are Adolph's brother?" incredulously.

At the name the gray face flushed pathetically. Jensen came forward,
pressing his hands together, and peered into Stefan's face.

"Yes, I am," he answered, "and you are Mr. Byrd that he wrote to me
about. I'd hoped you weren't coming, after all. Well," and he waved his
hand, "you see how it is."