out saying you’ll come?”  “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.”  I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously:  “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—”  I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver.  After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him.  The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.  “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.”  The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.  “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”  “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”  At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door.  “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”  “But I know he’s there.”  She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.  “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.”  I mentioned Gatsby.  “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?”  She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.  “My memory goes back t