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Manuel, elbowing his way through the surging throng and the baskets of tomatoes, asked after Roberto at the houses that had been indicated; the janitresses, however, knew no such fellow, and there was nothing left but to climb to the upper stories and enquire there.

After several ascents he located the sculptor’s studio. At the top of a dark, dirty staircase he stumbled into a passageway where a group of old women were chatting.

“Don Roberto Hasting? A gentleman who lives in a sculptor’s studio?”

“It must be that door over there.”

Manuel opened the door half way, peered in and discovered Roberto at his writing.

“Hello. Is that you?” greeted Roberto. “What’s up?”

“I came to see you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How are you getting along?”

“I’m at the end of my rope.”

“What do you mean,—end of your rope?”

“Out of work.”

“And your uncle?”

“Oh, it’s some time since I left him.”

“How did that happen?”

Manuel recounted his troubles. Then, seeing that Roberto continued rapidly writing, he grew silent.