ut I'm willing to risk it for the sake of the
novelty of the thing."

The old philosopher's thin face lit up with pleasure.

"You consent, then?" he chuckled in his womanish treble.

"Of course I do. Begin at once, and have done with it."

"Not now, mein Herr; some modifications must be made in the
connections--mere matters of detail. Come again to-night."

"At what hour?"

"At ten. Mein Voegelein, show the Herr the way out."

The girl, who had been moving restlessly about the room all this time,
with her wild brown eyes fixed now on Ronald, now on the old man, and
oftener in a shy, inquisitive stare on the corpse, lit a dusty
chemical lamp and led the way down the awkward passages and stairs.
Ronald tried to start a conversation with her as he followed.

"You are too young, my birdling, to be accustomed to such sights as
this upstairs."

"Birdling is not too young, she's almost fourteen," said the girl,
proudly. "And she likes it, too; it makes her think of mother. Mother
went to sleep on that table, mein Herr."

"Poor thing! she's half-witted," thought Wyde as he passed into the
street. "By-by, birdie."

Home he walked briskly, to be met under his flaming balcony by
Lottchen's kindly afternoon greeting. How had mein Herr passed his
Sabbath? she asked.

"Quietly enough, Lottchen. I met an old philosopher in the God's-Acre,
and went home with him to his shop. Have you ever heard of Herr Doctor
Lebensfunke?"

"Yes, mein Herr. Wrong here, they say;" and she tapped her wide, round
German forehead, and lifted her eyes expressively heavenward.

"Sold himself to the devil, eh?" asked Wyde.

Lottchen was not quite sure on that point. Some said one thing, and
some another. There was undoubtedly a devil, else how could good
Doctor Luther have thrown his inkstand at him? But he had never been
seen in Doctor Lebensfunke's neighborhood; and, on the whole, Lottchen
was inclined to attribute the Herr Doctor's trouble to an indefinable
something whose nature was broadly hinted at by more tapping of the
forehead.

Ronald Wyde mounted the stairs, locked himself in his room, and wished
himself out of the scrape he was getting into. But, being in for it
now, he lit a cigar, and tried to fancy the processes he would have to
go through, and how he, a natty and respectable young fellow, would
look and feel in a drunkard's skin. His conjectures being too foggily
outlined to please him, he put them aside, and waited impati