But, at the same time, he found himself edging towards the door, nearer
and nearer, changing his chair when possible, and joining the groups
that stood closest to the way of escape.

"I must thank you all _tausendmal_ for my little reception and the great
pleasure--the very great honour you have done me," he began in decided
tones at length, "but I fear I have trespassed far too long already on
your hospitality. Moreover, I have some distance to walk to my inn."

A chorus of voices greeted his words. They would not hear of his
going,--at least not without first partaking of refreshment. They
produced pumpernickel from one cupboard, and rye-bread and sausage from
another, and all began to talk again and eat. More coffee was made,
fresh cigars lighted, and Bruder Meyer took out his violin and began to
tune it softly.

"There is always a bed upstairs if Herr Harris will accept it," said
one.

"And it is difficult to find the way out now, for all the doors are
locked," laughed another loudly.

"Let us take our simple pleasures as they come," cried a third. "Bruder
Harris will understand how we appreciate the honour of this last visit
of his."

They made a dozen excuses. They all laughed, as though the politeness of
their words was but formal, and veiled thinly--more and more thinly--a
very different meaning.