Since that day they exchanged no more signals, and never again appeared
on the balcony.

Carovius rubbed his hands at the thought that the majestic Andreas
Doederlein had after all grown horns. But his joy waned when he reflected
that two other people were deriving profit from the situation. That
should not be; that had to be corrected.

And so he stood at times in the evening out in the narrow passage at the
entrance to his apartment. His bathrobe fell down over his bony body in
many folds. In his right hand he carried a candle. Thus equipped, he
listened in, or rather into, the stillness of the house.

At times he would take a dark lantern, walk up the stairs slowly, step
by step, and listen, listen with the greedy ears of a man who was
determined to hear something. There was something in the air that told
him of secret, and of course illicit, transactions.

Was it the same medium through which he learned of the weakening of
Marguerite's mind and the beclouding of her soul? Was it this that told
him of her mental anxiety and the ever growing delusion of her terrified
and broken heart?

Later he learned of her mad outbursts of anxiety concerning the life of
her child. He heard that she would never allow the child out of her
sight; that she regarded the natural warmth of her body as a high fever;
that every morning she would stand by Dorothea's bed, weep, take her in
her arms, feel her pulse, and wrap her body in warm clothing. He heard,
too, that night after night she sat by the child's bedside watching over
her and praying for her, while the child herself slept like an old shoe.
All this he learned from the maid.

One day Herr Carovius came home, and found an ambulance and a crowd of
gaping people before the house. As he went up the stairway he heard a
hushed whimpering. Marguerite was being dragged from the house by two
men. The rear of this procession was brought up by Andreas Doederlein, on
whose face there was an expression of accusation. The room door was
open. He looked in, and saw bits of broken glasses and dishes, and in
the midst of the debris sat Dorothea. Her mouth was puckered as if just
on the point of weeping, and a cloth was bound about her forehead. The
maid stood in the door wringing her hands. And on a step above was
Friedrich Benda, white as a sheet, and evidently suffering from great
mental anxiety.

Marguerite offered but little resistance. She looked behind her, and
tried to see what