“That’s settled, then,” said McLean.  “Nurse Elisabet, if she can come.  And—­look here, old man.  I ’ve been trying to say this for a week and haven’t had the nerve.  Let me help you out for a while.  You can send it back when you get it, any time, a year or ten years.  I’ll not miss it.”

But Peter refused.  He tempered the refusal in his kindly way.

“I can’t take anything now,” he said.  “But I’ll remember it, and if things get very bad I’ll come to you.  It isn’t costing much to live.  Marie is a good manager, almost as good as—­Harmony was.”  This with difficulty.  He found it always hard to speak of Harmony.  His throat seemed to close on the name.

That was the best McLean could do, but he made a mental reservation to see Marie that night and slip her a little money.  Peter need never know, would never notice.

At a cross-street the car stopped, and the little Bulgarian, Georgiev, got on.  He inspected the car carefully before he came in from the platform, and sat down unobtrusively in a corner.  Things were not going well with him either.  His small black eyes darted from face to face suspiciously, until they came to a rest on Peter.

It was Georgiev’s business to read men.  Quickly he put together the bits he had gathered from Harmony on the staircase, added to them Peter’s despondent attitude, his strained face, the abstraction which required a touch on the arm from his companion when they reached their destination, recalled Peter outside the door of Harmony’s room in the Pension Schwarz—­and built him a little story that was not far from the truth.

Peter left the car without seeing him.  It was the hour of the promenade, when the Ring and the larger business streets were full of people, when Demel’s was thronged with pretty women eating American ices, with military men drinking tea and nibbling Austrian pastry, the hour when the flower women along the Stephansplatz did a rousing business in roses, when sterile women burned candles before the Madonna in the Cathedral, when the lottery did the record business of the day.

It was Peter’s forlorn hope that somewhere among the crowd he might happen on Harmony.  For some reason he thought of her always as in a crowd, with people close, touching her, men staring at her, following her.  He had spent a frightful night in the Opera, scanning seat after seat, not so much because he hoped to find her as because inaction was intolerable.

And so, on that afternoon, he made his slow progress along the Karntnerstrasse, halting now and then to scrutinize the crowd.  He even peered through the doors of shops here and there, hoping while he feared that the girl might be seeking employment within, as she had before in the early days of the winter.

Because of his stature and powerful physique, and perhaps, too, because of the wretchedness in his eyes, people noticed him.  There was one place where Peter lingered, where a new building was being erected, and where because of the narrowness of the passage the dense crowd was thinned as it passed.  He stood by choice outside a hairdresser’s window, where a brilliant light shone on each face that passed.