There were several grocers and coal merchants whom he knew well enough, but he owed them money.
Pastor Wundt might let him have it, but the agony such a disclosure to that worthy would entail held him back.
He did call on one or two acquaintances, but these, surprised at the unusual and peculiar request, excused themselves.
At four o'clock he returned home, weary and exhausted.
"I don't know what to do," he said despairingly.
"If I could only think."
Jennie thought of Brander, but the situation had not accentuated her desperation to the point where she could brave her father's opposition and his terrible insult to the Senator, so keenly remembered, to go and ask.
Her watch had been pawned a second time, and she had no other means of obtaining money.
The family council lasted until half-past ten, but still there was nothing decided.
Mrs. Gerhardt persistently and monotonously turned one hand over in the other and stared at the floor.
Gerhardt ran his hand through his reddish brown hair distractedly.
"It's no use," he said at last.
"I can't think of anything."
"Go to bed, Jennie," said her mother solicitously; "get the others to go.
There's no use their sitting up I may think of something.
You go to bed."
Jennie went to her room, but the very thought of repose was insupportable.
She had read in the paper, shortly after her father's quarrel with the Senator, that the latter had departed for Washington.
There had been no notice of his return.
Still he might be in the city.
She stood before a short, narrow mirror that surmounted a shabby bureau, thinking.
Her sister Veronica, with whom she slept, was already composing herself to dreams.
Finally a grim resolution fixed itself in her consciousness.
She would go and see Senator Brander.
If he were in town he would help Bass. Why shouldn't she—he loved her.
He had asked over and over to marry her.
Why should she not go and ask him for help?
She hesitated a little while, then hearing Veronica breathing regularly, she put on her hat and jacket, and noiselessly opened the door into the sitting-room to see if any one were stirring.
There was no sound save that of Gerhardt rocking nervously to and fro in the kitchen.
There was no light save that of her own small room-lamp and a gleam from under the kitchen door.
She turned and blew the former out—then slipped quietly to the front door, opened it and stepped out into the night.
A waning moon was shining, and a hushed sense of growing life filled the air, for it was nearing spring again.
As Jennie hurried along the shadowy streets—the arc light had not yet been invented—she had a sinking sense of fear; what was this rash thing she was about to do?
How would the Senator receive her?
What would he think?
She stood stock-still, wavering and doubtful; then the recollection of Bass in his night cell came over her again, and she hurried on.
The character of the Capitol Hotel was such that it was not difficult for a woman to find ingress through the ladies' entrance to the various floors of the hotel at any hour of the night.
The hotel, not unlike many others of the time, was in no sense loosely conducted, but its method of supervision in places was lax.
Any person could enter, and, by applying at a rear entrance to the lobby, gain the attention of the clerk.
Otherwise not much notice was taken of those who came and went.
When she came to the door it was dark save for a low light burning in the entry-way.
The distance to the Senator's room was only a short way along the hall of the second floor.
She hurried up the steps, nervous and pale, but giving no other outward sign of the storm that was surging within her.
When she came to his familiar door she paused; she feared that she might not find him in his room; she trembled again to think that he might be there.
A light shone through the transom, and, summoning all her courage, she knocked.
A man coughed and bestirred himself.
His surprise as he opened the door knew no bounds.
"Why, Jennie!" he exclaimed. "How delightful!
I was thinking of you.
Come in—come in."