edroom, his eyes fell on
a letter for him in Dorfling's handwriting. He opened it, greatly
surprised, and read as follows:

"DEAR FRIEND: When you read this I shall be free from all trouble and
all doubt. I have accomplished what I set myself to do, and I am going
back to eternity from this limited sphere. May you be as happy as I
shall be in a few hours! Keep a friendly thought for me as long as you
stay in this world of misery, and believe that he who writes this had
the warmest friendship for you."

"L. DORFLING."

Wilhelm stood as if thunderstruck. Was it by any chance a dreadful
joke? No; Dorfling was incapable of that. It must be a grim reality. He
ran quickly out of the house to seek Schrotter. The old Indian servant
opened the door, and in his broken English informed him that Schrotter
Sahib had found a letter when he reached home and had immediately gone
out again.

Wilhelm could now doubt no longer, and running swiftly, he reached the
street where Dorfling lived, waited in agonizing suspense for the door
to be opened, flew up the stairs, and through the open door to his
friend's bedroom. There he found Schrotter; Mayboom was also there
sobbing, and a tearful old servant. In an arm chair near the bed was
Dorfling, still in his dress coat and tie, his head sunk on his breast,
his face hardly whiter than in life, his arms hanging down, and in the
middle of the white shirt-front a great red stain. On the floor lay a
revolver.

Wilhelm, horrified, took his friend's hand. It was still quite warm.
His agonizing look sought Schrotter's, who answered in a hushed voice,
"He is dead."

Then his tears broke out, and his trembling fingers had hardly strength
to close the lids over his friend's eyes, those eyes which looked so
strangely quiet and peaceful as if they now knew the answer to the
Great Secret.

CHAPTER VIII.

DARK DAYS.

Dorfling's suicide made a profound impression on Wilhelm, and for
months he was haunted by the vision of that motionless form with its
white face and blood-stained breast. It had a weird fascination for
him, causing him to revert constantly to that tragical May night that
had begun with a cheerful dinner, and ended in a fatal pistol shot.
Paul's comment on the occurrence was short and concise. "The poor chap
was mad," he said, and there the matter ended as far as he was
concerned. Mayboom revered his friend's memory as he would a saint, and
erected a kind of chapel to him