he hall, and a splendid barouche was being pushed through
the _porte-cochere_ into the back premises; a couple of trim-looking
English grooms with four horses followed.

"Is some one coming to live here?" I demanded of a workman, who made
answer:

"_Ja wohl!_ A rich English milord has taken the house furnished for six
months--Sir Le Marchant, _oder so etwas_. I do not know the name quite
correctly. He comes in a few days."

"So!" said I, wondering what attraction Elberthal could offer to a
rich English sir or milord, and feeling at the same time a mild
glow of curiosity as to him and his circumstances, for I humbly confess
it--I had never seen an authentic milord. Elberthal and Koeln were
almost the extent of my travels, and I only remembered that at the
Niederrheinisches Musikfest last year some one had pointed out to me a
decrepit-looking old gentleman, with a bottle-nose and a meaningless
eye, as a milord--very, very rich, and exceedingly good. I had sorrowed
a little at the time in thinking that he did not personally better grace
his circumstances and character, but until this moment I had never
thought of him again.

"That is his secretary," pursued the workman to me, in an under-tone, as
he pointed out a young man who was standing in the middle of the hall,
note-book in hand. "Herr Arkwright. He is looking after us."

"When does the _Englaender_ come?"

"In a few days, with his servants and milady, and milady's maid and dogs
and bags and everything. And she--milady--is to have those rooms"--he
pointed overhead, and grinned--"those where Banquier Klein was found
with his throat cut. _He!_"

He laughed, and began to sing lustily, "In Berlin, sagt' er."

After giving one more short survey to the house, and wondering why the
apartments of a suicide should be assigned to a young and beautiful
woman (for I instinctively judged her to be young and beautiful), I went
on my way, and my thoughts soon returned to Eugen and Sigmund, and that
trouble which I felt was hanging inevitably over us.

* * * * *

Eugen was, that evening, in a mood of utter, cool aloofness. His trouble
did not appear to be one that he could confide--at present, at least. He
took up his violin and discoursed most eloquent music, in the dark, to
which music Sigmund and I listened. Sigmund sat upon my knee, and Eugen
went on playing--improvising, or rather speaking the thoughts which were
uppermost in his heart.