"Of course," said Kerner, "I wouldn't let her go on working. Not my wife. What's the use to wait?
She's willing. I sold that water color of the Pali- sades yesterday. We could cook on a two-burner gas stove. You know the ragouts I can throw together?
Yes, I think we will marry next week."
"Kerner," said I, "you are a fool."
"Have an absinthe drip?" said Kerner, grandly.
"To-night you are the guest of Art in paying quan- tities. I think we will get a flat with a bath."
"I never tried one -- I mean an absinthe drip," said I.
The waiter brought it and poured the water slowly over the ice in the dripper.
"It looks exactly like the Mississippi River water in the big bend below Natchez," said I, fascinated, gazing at the be-muddled drip.
"There are such flats for eight dollars a week," said Kerner.
"You are a fool," said I, and began to sip the filtration. "What you need," I continued, "is the official attention of one Jesse Holmes."
Kerner, not being a Southerner, did not compre- hend, so he sat, sentimental, figuring on his flat in his sordid, artistic way, while I gazed into the green eyes of the sophisticated Spirit of Wormwood.
Presently I noticed casually that a procession of bacchantes limned on the wall immediately below the ceiling bad begun to move, traversing the room from right to left in a gay and spectacular pilgrimage. I did not confide my discovery to Kerner. The artistic temperament is too high-strung to view such devia- tions from the natural laws of the art of kalsomining.
I sipped my absinthe drip and sawed wormwood.
One absinthe drip is not much -- but I said again to Kerner, kindly:
"You are a fool." And then, in the vernacular:
"Jesse Holmes for yours."
And then I looked around and saw the Fool-Killer, as he had always appeared to my imagination, sitting at a nearby table, and regarding us with his reddish, fatal, relentless eyes. He was Jesse Holmes from top to toe; he had the long, gray, ragged beard, the gray clothes of ancient cut, the executioner's look, and the dusty shoes of one who bad been called from afar. His eyes were turned fixedly upon Kerner. I shuddered to think that I bad invoked him from his assiduous southern duties. I thought of flying, and then I kept my seat, reflecting that many men bad es- caped his ministrations when it seemed that nothing short of an appointment as Ambassador to Spain could save them from him. I had called my brother Kerner a fool and was in danger of hell fire. That was nothing; but I would try to save him from Jesse Holmes.
The Fool-Killer got up from his table and came over to ours. He rested his hands upon it, and turned his burning, vindictive eyes upon Kerner, ig- noring me.
"You are a hopeless fool," be said to the artist.
"Haven't you had enough of starvation yet? I of-
fer you one more opportunity. Give up this girl and come back to your home. Refuse, and you must take the consequences."
The Fool-Killer's threatening face was within a foot of his victim's; but to my horror, Kerner made not the slightest sign of being aware of his presence.
"We will be married next week," be muttered ab- sent-mindedly. "With my studio furniture and some second-hand stuff we can make out."
"You have decided your own fate," said the Fool-
Killer, in a low but terrible voice. "You may con- sider yourself as one dead. You have had your last chance."
"In the moonlight," went on Kerner, softly, "we will sit under the skylight with our guitar and sing away the false delights of pride and money."
"On your own head be it," hissed the Fool-Killer, and my scalp prickled when I perceived that neither Kerner's eyes nor his ears took the slightest cog- nizance of Jesse Holmes. And then I knew that for some reason the veil had been lifted for me alone, and that I bad been elected to save my friend from de- struction at the Fool-Killer's bands. Something of the fear and wonder of it must have showed itself in my face.
"Excuse me," said Kerner, with his wan, amiable smile; "was I talking to myself? I think it is getting to be a habit with me."
The Fool-Killer turned and walked out of Far- ronils.
"Wait here for me," said I, rising; "I must speak to that man. Had you no answer for him? Because you are a fool must you die like a mouse under his foot? Could you not utter one squeak in your own defence?
"You are drunk," said Kerner, heartlessly. "No one addressed me."
"The destroyer of your mind," said I, "stood above you just now and marked you for his victim.
You are not blind or deaf."
"I recognized no such person," said Kerner. "I have seen no one but you at this table. Sit down.
