reached home after her drive. A note was
lying on the table, that had been brought during her absence. She felt
a shock of alarm as she took it up. If it should be from him--if he had
written, instead of coming himself; and yet, although she had never
seen his handwriting, it was impossible that these lines could be his;
they were in a woman's hand. With a quieter heart she stepped to the
window, and read these words:

"A person unknown to you, whose name is of no consequence, feels it her
duty to warn you, honored Fraeulein, against a man whose attentions to
you can no longer be a secret, since he is regularly to be found every
evening before your window, and to-day even went so far as to pay you a
visit. This letter is to tell you that this man has a wife, and a child
six years of age; a fact, however, which he carefully conceals from all
his acquaintances. Leaving it to you to form your own opinion of this
conduct, the writer signs herself respectfully, N. N."

Half an hour after, the bell in Julie's room was rung. The old servant
found his mistress sitting at her writing-desk, with a calm face, but
with traces of tears still on her cheeks, that she had forgotten to
wipe away. She had just sealed a letter, which she now handed to the
old man.

"See that this letter is delivered to-day, Erich, and at the studio; I
do not know where Herr Jansen lodges. Tell the janitor to hand it to
him the first thing to-morrow morning. And now, bring me something to
eat. We were cheated out of our dinner. I--I shall die of exhaustion
unless I eat something."

The anonymous note was inclosed in the letter to Jansen. Julie had
added nothing but the words:

"I shall be at home all day to-morrow. Come and give me back my faith
in mankind and my own heart.

"Your Julie."

CHAPTER VIII.

On this very afternoon Felix had carried out a resolution that he had
long had in mind, and had sought out the two friends, Elfinger and
Rosenbusch, in their own quarters.

They occupied two rooms in the third story of a somewhat tumble-down
house, which, situated in one of the quaint old streets of the
city, concealed its little fantastically-framed windows under a
far-projecting roof, like purblind eyes under bushy eyebrows.

Felix had often passed without ever having persuaded himself to enter
the untidy-looking vestibule, and climb the dark stairs. To