Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood.
     In came the young man of the Arabian Night's fiasco - pale, melancholy, hopeless.
     "Vell," said Hildebrant, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?'"
     Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse this mountain of pernicious humor - curse him and die? Why should - But there was Laura. "I have not," said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher. "But 'tis the only subject in the animal, natural and illegal lists of outrages that I've not been compained to about these two days. See the landlord. Or else move out if ye like. Have ye hippopotamuses in the lease? No, then?"
     "It was the old man who spoke of it," said Danny. "Likely there's nothing in it."
     Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck northward into the heart of the district where Easter - modern Easter, in new, bright raiment - leads the pascal march. Out of towering brown churches came the blithe music of anthems from the choirs. The broad sidewalks were moving parterres of living flowers - so it seemed when your eye looked upon the Easter girl.
     Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and stood. His hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave's card. He drew it out and looked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a crawling fly. There was written on it in Quigg's bold, round hand: "Good for one roast chicken to bearer."