They knocked at the door of the turnpike-keeper's
little house, and tapped on the window shutters. Nothing could be heard
but the sighing of the wind; and at last they turned away homewards.
But next morning the milk-pitcher was still absent, and there was no
smoke from the chimney. The village-elder was then informed. He ordered
out the gendarme, and sent a locksmith to force the door. Half the
village went after them and crowded round the turnpike-keeper's
cottage, so that the gendarme had some trouble in keeping the women and
children at a distance.

The village-elder banged on the door with his fist and rattled the
handle. "Herr Vogt!" he cried, "Herr Vogt! open the door!" And again:
"Herr Vogt! turnpike-keeper! open the door!" Then the gendarme, an old
comrade in arms of the turnpike-keeper, called loudly; "August! open
the door! or let us know if you are ill!"

All was silent. The shutters were closed; the whole house seemed
asleep.

Only the lowing of the cows sounded from their stable, and the rattling
of their chains, as if they had heard the cries that could not awaken
their old master.

Then the village-elder turned to the locksmith: "We must break the door
open."

The lock was soon forced, but the door would only open an inch or two;
an iron bar had been fixed across it, but that was soon lifted.

A couple of young men were posted at the door to keep out the crowd,
which thronged around the house in silent breathless curiosity.

The two officials stepped into the passage. The gendarme pushed the
kitchen-door open; the room was cold as ice. On the hearth a handful of
broken sticks had been placed, and the match-box lay beside them ready
for kindling the fire.

The front room was darkened by the closed shutters, and a close smell
as from a vault met them when the door was opened. There sat the
turnpike-keeper at the table dead. His head had fallen forward; the
body sat stiff and stark in the narrow arm-chair, and his hand, which
had evidently been supporting his chin, was still raised, stiffened by
the paralysis of death and by the icy cold. Papers of various kinds
were spread out before the dead man: account-books, and gilt-edged
testimonials dating from the turnpike-keeper's time in the army. Beside
these were cardboard boxes filled with money, each neatly labelled:
"Money for milk," "Money for corn," "Money for cattle." The old man had
evidently taken them out of a cash-box which stood open before