nery
and relating to wool knitting. See, is this the sort of envelope?"

"That is gray," Herman Spier said sullenly.

"But in size?"

"It is similar."

"Good." He held the envelope to the light and inspected it. "It would be
interesting to know," he said, "whether the Countess has an aunt in this
nunnery, or whether--but go, man. And hurry."

Left alone, he got together pens, ink, and carbon paper. He worked
awkwardly, his hands too large for the pen, his elbows spread wide over
the table. But the result was fair. He surveyed it with satisfaction.

Meanwhile, back went Herman over his earlier route. But now he did not
run. His craven knees shook beneath him. Fresh sweat, not of haste but
of fear, broke out over him. He who was brave enough of tongue in the
meetings, who was capable of rising to heights of cruelty that amounted
to ferocity when one of a mob, was a coward alone.

However, the sight of the restaurant, and of his fellow clerk eating
calmly, quieted him. Peter Niburg was still alone. Herman took a table
near him, and ordered a bowl of soup. His hands shook, but the hot food
revived him. After all, it was simple enough. But, of course, it hinged
entirely on his fellow-clerk's agreeing to accompany him.

He glanced across. Peter Niburg was eating, but his eyes were fixed
on Madame Marie, at her high desk. There was speculation in them, and
something else. Triumph, perhaps.

Suddenly Herman became calm. Calm with hate.

And, after all, it was very easy. Peter Niburg was lonely. The burden
of the letter oppressed him. He wanted the comfort of human conversation
and the reassurance of a familiar face. When the two met at--the rack by
the door which contained their hats, his expression was almost friendly.
They went out together.

"A fine night," said Herman, and cast an eye at the sky.

"Fine enough."

"Too good to waste in sleep. I was thinking," observed Herman, "of an
hour or two at the Hungaria."

The Hungaria! Something in Peter's pleasure-hungry heart leaped, but he
mocked his fellow-clerk.

"Since when," he inquired, "have you frequented the Hungaria?

"I feel in the mood," was the somewhat sullen reply. "I work hard
enough, God knows, to have a little pleasure now and then." Danger was
making him shrewd. He turned away from Peter Niburg, then faced
him again. "If you care to come," he suggested. "Not a supper, you
understand; but a glass of wine, Italian champagne," he added.

Peter