oting.
Obenreizer had pleaded that he was not in spirits for a public festival.
Nobody knew what had become of him. It was believed that he had slipped
away for a solitary walk.

The house and offices had been closed but a few minutes, when the door of
a shining wardrobe in the notary's shining room opened, and Obenreizer
stopped out. He walked to a window, unclosed the shutters, satisfied
himself that he could escape unseen by way of the garden, turned back
into the room, and took his place in the notary's easy-chair. He was
locked up in the house, and there were five hours to wait before eight
o'clock came.

He wore his way through the five hours: sometimes reading the books and
newspapers that lay on the table: sometimes thinking: sometimes walking
to and fro. Sunset came on. He closed the window-shutters before he
kindled a light. The candle lighted, and the time drawing nearer and
nearer, he sat, watch in hand, with his eyes on the oaken door.

At eight, smoothly and softly and silently the door opened.

One after another, he read the names on the outer rows of boxes. No such
name as Vendale! He removed the outer row, and looked at the row behind.
These were older boxes, and shabbier boxes. The four first that he
examined, were inscribed with French and German names. The fifth bore a
name which was almost illegible. He brought it out into the room, and
examined it closely. There, covered thickly with time-stains and dust,
was the name: "Vendale."

The key hung to the box by a string. He unlocked the box, took out four
loose papers that were in it, spread them open on the table, and began to
read them. He had not so occupied a minute, when his face fell from its
expression of eagerness and avidity, to one of haggard astonishment and
disappointment. But, after a little consideration, he copied the papers.
He then replaced the papers, replaced the box, closed the door,
extinguished the candle, and stole away.

As his murderous and thievish footfall passed out of the garden, the
steps of the notary and some one accompanying him stopped at the front
door of the house. The lamps were lighted in the little street, and the
notary had his door-key in his hand.

"Pray do not pass my house, Mr. Bintrey," he said. "Do me the honour to
come in. It is one of our town half-holidays--our Tir--but my people
will be back directly. It is droll that you should ask your way to the
Hotel of me. Let us eat and