old school? What was it they so admired and wondered at in his
simple act? Why did they set such store upon his having the courage to
come, to "give himself so freely," "unconditionally" as one of them had
expressed it with such a mockery of exaggeration?

Fear stirred in his heart most horribly, and he found no answer to any
of his questionings. Only one thing he now understood quite clearly: it
was their purpose to keep him here. They did not intend that he should
go. And from this moment he realised that they were sinister, formidable
and, in some way he had yet to discover, inimical to himself, inimical
to his life. And the phrase one of them had used a moment ago--"this
_last_ visit of his"--rose before his eyes in letters of flame.

Harris was not a man of action, and had never known in all the course of
his career what it meant to be in a situation of real danger. He was not
necessarily a coward, though, perhaps, a man of untried nerve. He
realised at last plainly that he was in a very awkward predicament
indeed, and that he had to deal with men who were utterly in earnest.
What their intentions were he only vaguely guessed. His mind, indeed,
was too confused for definite ratiocination, and he was only able to
follow blindly the strongest instincts that moved in him. It never
occurred to him that the Brothers might all be mad, or that he himself
might have temporarily lost his senses and be suffering under some
terrible delusion. In fact, nothing occurred to him--he realised
nothing--except that he meant to escape--and the quicker the better. A
tremendous revulsion of feeling set in and overpowered him.

Accordingly, without further protest for the moment, he ate his
pumpernickel and drank his coffee, talking meanwhile as naturally and
pleasantly as he could, and when a suitable interval had passed, he rose
to his feet and announced once more that he must now take his leave. He
spoke very quietly, but very decidedly. No one hearing him could doubt
that he meant what he said. He had got very close to the door by this
time.

"I regret," he said, using his best German, and speaking to a hushed
room, "that our pleasant evening must come to an end, but it is now
time for me to wish you all good-night." And then, as no one said
anything, he added, though with a trifle less assurance, "And I thank
you all most sincerely for your hospitality."

"On the contrary," replied Kalkmann instantly, rising from his chair and