de Linden got up then and went to her writing-desk. Calmly she
opened the pretty blotting-book, drew up a chair, grasped a pen and
seated herself to write. She had thought of it long enough; without
hesitation the words flowed from her pen:

"I will beg Uncle Henry to explain everything to you as gently as
possible. I cannot speak of it myself--it is the most painful
disappointment of my whole life. I only ask you at present to confirm
my own declaration that I must live in retirement for some time on
account of my health. It will not take long to decide upon something.
GERTRUDE."

She sealed the note and put it on the writing table in her husband's
room. She put the packet of poems beside it and the note-book also.
What should she do with it? The poem was nothing to her--it was only an
old habit of his to write verses; the judge had let that out yesterday.
He had only made use of it in this case as a useful means for making
the deception complete. A man who writes tender verses while at the
same time he is privately acquainting himself with the amount of the
lady's fortune through an agent--that was a tragi-comedy indeed, that
would make a good plot for a farce--and _she_ was to be the heroine!

She kept the fragment of that dreadful letter. Then she wrote a note to
her mother and one to Uncle Henry, then took out her watch and looked
for a time-table.

Whither? The Berlin express which connected them with all the outer
world was already gone. Then she must wait until tomorrow--and then?
Somewhere she must go--she must be alone! Only not with mamma and
Jenny, somewhere far away from here.

She suddenly sprang up with startled eyes, she heard a voice, his
voice.

"Has my wife come back?"

Then a merry whistle, a few bars from "Boccaccio" and hasty steps in
the corridor. Now his hand was on the door-knob. It was locked.

"Gertrude!" he called.

She was standing in the middle of the room, her lips pressed together,
her eyes stretched wide open, but she did not stir.

He supposed she was not there and went quietly into his own room. She
heard him open the door of the bedroom.

"Gertrude!" he called again.

Back into his own room; he spoke to the dog, whistled a few bars of his
opera-air again, moved about here and there and then stopped--now he
was tearing a paper--now he was reading her note.

"Gertrude, Gertrude, I know you are in your room. Open the door!"

His voice sounded calm and kind, but she