speech inaudible for the moment. The man moved uneasily on the bed. Von
Holzen went towards him and poured out more milk. Instead of reaching
out for it, the sick man's hand lay on the coverlet. The notes were
tightly held by three fingers; the free finger and the thumb picked at
the counterpane. Von Holzen bent over the bed and examined the face.
The sick man's eyes were closed. Suddenly he spoke in a mumbling
voice--"And now that you have what you want, you will go."

"No," answered Von Holzen, in a kind voice, "I will not do that. I will
stay with you if you do not want to be left alone. You are brave, at
all events. I shall be horribly afraid when it comes to my turn to
die."

"You would not be afraid if you had lived a life such as mine. Death
cannot be worse, at all events." And the man laughed contentedly
enough, as one who, having passed through evil days, sees the end of
them at last.

Von Holzen made no answer. He went to the window and opened it, letting
in the air laden with the clean scent of burning peat, which makes the
atmosphere of The Hague unlike that of any other town; for here is a
city with the smell of a village in its busy streets. The German
scientist stood looking out, and into the room came again that strange
silence. It was an odd room in which to die, for every article in it
was what is known as an antiquity; and although some of these relics of
the past had been carefully manufactured in a back shop in Bezem
Straat, others were really of ancient date. The very glass from which
the dying man drank his milk dated from the glorious days of Holland
when William the Silent pitted his Northern stubbornness and deep
diplomacy against the fire and fanaticism of Alva. Many objects in the