For several moments he drew vigorously at his big porcelain pipe. "Doctor," he asked, presently, "did you ever meet Isidore Bosenthal?"
"No," said I. "Who is he?"
"A Jew, a power in the West Indies. This little chap reminds me of him—because he is so different. There are three people in the West Indies who are worth knowing. One is Mallock, another is Arjolas and the third is Isidore Rosenthal."
Leyden stirred the ashes of his pipe, while I waited. Gonzalez, who passed near me, had swallowed his pique and was talking in bad English to a Portuguese adventuress. "Yes, Madame," he was saying, "I have traveled a great deal. I have been to Demerara, to Trinidad and to Venezuela. Now I am going to New York. If a man has the means it is his duty to travel; he should see the world, improve his mind—and I, I have the means. I own a chemist's shop in Paramaribo"
"Rosenthal," said Leyden, "is a Czechian
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