WHITEWASH
mon-place surroundings at a glance, shrugged his shoulders, and, turning his back, began a slow pacing up and down his dingy cell.
Better stay where he was, at least for the present. He had his landlady by the scruff, so to speak. There were some spots in the career of the erstwhile belle Nivemaise,—but, no matter,—she was devoted. Until recently no suspicion had been attached to him, and since the horizon had so visibly darkened, he had taken good care to stick by his charming little rooms in East Fortieth Street, and not to jeopardize his present retreat. Decidedly this abode was as good as any, at least for a day or two, when he could quietly lose himself in the labyrinth of the Polish Jew quarter. Thank goodness, there was always this disguise open to him. For his mother had been a Pole, and a beauty in her day. The memory of Judith Grosifa was still green in the police and polite annals of Vienna.
Having decided upon his mode of procedure, he flung himself upon the bed and turned his mind to other details of his trouble. What of Eugenia, the faithful? He twisted uneasily.
