In those days, it may not be amiss to remark that merchants of the
old-fashioned sort still lived over their counting-houses in the city.
The late Mr. Wagner's place of business included two spacious houses
standing together, with internal means of communication. One of these
buildings was devoted to the offices and warehouses. The other (having
the garden at the back) was the private residence.

Fritz advanced to meet me, and stopped, with a sudden change in his
manner. "Something has happened," he said--"I see it in your face! Has
the madman anything to do with it?"

"Yes. Shall I tell you what has happened, Fritz?"

"Not for the world. My ears are closed to all dreadful and distressing
narratives. I will imagine the madman--let us talk of something else."

"You will probably see him, Fritz, in a few weeks' time."

"You don't mean to tell me he is coming into this house?"

"I am afraid it's likely, to say the least of it."

Fritz looked at me like a man thunderstruck. "There are some
disclosures," he said, in his quaint way, "which are too overwhelming to
be received on one's legs. Let us sit down."

He led the way to a summer-house at the end of the garden. On the wooden
table, I observed a bottle of the English beer which my friend prized so
highly, with glasses on either side of it.