room had a story, had been in the daily use of hands long since
vanished, could tell the history of half a dozen human lives lived out
and now forgotten. The air itself smelt of age and mouldering memories.

Von Holzen came towards the bed without speaking, and stood looking
down. Never a talkative man, he was now further silenced by the shadow
that lay over the stricken face of his companion. The sick man was
breathing very slowly. He glanced at Von Holzen for a moment, and then
returned to the dull contemplation of the opposite wall. Quite suddenly
his breath caught. There were long pauses during which he seemed to
cease to breathe. Then at length followed a pause which merged itself
gently into eternity.

Von Holzen waited a few minutes, and then bent over the bed and softly
unclasped the dead man's hand, taking from it the crumpled notes.
Mechanically he counted them, twelve hundred gulden in all, and
restored them to the pocket from which he had taken them half an hour
earlier.

He walked to the window and waited. When at length the district doctor
arrived, Von Holzen turned to greet him with a stiff bow.

"I am afraid, Herr Doctor," he said, in German, "You are too late."




CHAPTER II

WORK OR PLAY?