“Do you know a feller by the name Marks Pasinsky?” he asked the clerk.

“Is he a guest of the house?” the clerk said.

“He’s a big feller with a stovepipe hat and curly hair,” Abe replied, “and he came in here yesterday afternoon with a short, dark feller what is stopping here.  This here Pasinsky is stopping where I am, but he ain’t showed up all night, and I guess he’s stayed here with that short, dark feller.”

The clerk touched a bell.

“Front,” he said, “show this gentleman up to eighty-nine.”

“Eighty-nine?” Abe cried.  “Who’s up in eighty-nine?”

[Illustration:  YOU’RE A FRESH YOUNG FELLER!]

“Tall, curly-haired gentleman came in here yesterday afternoon with a short, dark gentleman name of Katzen and——­”

Abe clapped his hand to his forehead.

“Arthur Katzen!” he cried.

The clerk nodded.

“Short, dark feller,” Abe murmured as he followed the bell-boy.  “Why didn’t I think of Arthur Katzen before?”

He entered the elevator, feeling as though he were walking in his sleep; nor did the jolt with which he was shot up to the eighth floor awaken him.  His conductor led him down the corridor and was about to knock at room eighty-nine when Abe seized him by the arm.

“Hold on,” Abe whispered.  “The door is open.”

They tiptoed up to the half-open door and, holding himself well within the shadow of the corridor, Abe peeped in.  It was ten o’clock of a sunny fall day, but the dark shades of room eighty-nine were drawn and the electric lights were blazing away as though it were still midnight.  Beneath the lights was a small, oblong table at which sat three men, and in front of each of them stood a small pile of chips.  Marks Pasinsky was dealing.

“A-ah, Katzen, you ruined that hand,” Marks Pasinsky said as he flipped out the cards three at a time.  “Why didn’t you lead it out the ace of Schueppe right at the start?  What did you expect to do with it?  Eat it?”

Katzen nodded sleepily.

“The way I feel now, Pasinsky, I could eat most anything,” he retorted.  “I could eat a round trip, if I had a cup of coffee with it, so hungry I am.  Let’s have some supper.”

“Supper!” Pasinsky cried.  “What do you want supper for?  The game is young yet.”

“Shall I tell you something?” the third hand—­a stranger to Abe—­said.  “You both played that hand like Strohschneiders.  Pasinsky sits there with two nines of trump in his hand and don’t lead ’em through me.  You could have beat me by a million very easy.”

He waved his hand with the palm outward and flapped his four fingers derisively.

“You call yourself a pinochle player!” he jeered, and fell to twisting his huge red mustache with his fingers.

Abe nodded an involuntary approval, and then as silently as they had arrived he and the bell-boy retreated toward the elevator shaft.