and half, and rather behind him, there stood the figure of an elderly
man in a cloak and broad-brimmed, conical hat; in his hand, which was
protected with a heavy gauntlet-shaped glove, he carried a long ebony
walking-stick, surmounted with what appeared, as it glittered dimly in
the twilight, to be a massive head of gold, and upon his breast, through
the folds of the cloak, there shone the links of a rich chain of the
same metal. The room was so obscure that nothing further of the
appearance of the figure could be ascertained, and his hat threw his
features into profound shadow. It would not have been easy to conjecture
the age of the intruder; but a quantity of dark hair escaping from
beneath this sombre hat, as well as his firm and upright carriage served
to indicate that his years could not yet exceed threescore, or
thereabouts. There was an air of gravity and importance about the garb
of the person, and something indescribably odd, I might say awful, in
the perfect, stone-like stillness of the figure, that effectually
checked the testy comment which had at once risen to the lips of the
irritated artist. He, therefore, as soon as he had sufficiently
recovered his surprise, asked the stranger, civilly, to be seated, and
desired to know if he had any message to leave for his master.

"Tell Gerard Douw," said the unknown, without altering his attitude in
the smallest degree, "that Minheer Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam, desires
to speak with him on tomorrow evening at this hour, and if he please, in
this room, upon matters of weight; that is all."

The stranger, having finished this message, turned abruptly, and, with a
quick, but silent step quitted the room, before Schalken had time to say
a word in reply. The young man felt a curiosity to see in what direction
the burgher of Rotterdam would turn, on quitting the studio, and for
that purpose he went directly to the window which commanded the door. A