life in her room, he went boldly
up the broad, winding stair and rang the bell. When the door was
opened, he would find something to say.

The bell, which he had pulled hard, pealed through the house, jangled
on, and, in a series of after-tinkles, died away. There was no
immediate answering sound; the silence persisted, and having waited for
some time, he rang again. Then, in the distance, he heard a door creak;
soft, cautious footsteps crept along the passage; a light moved; the
glass window in the upper half of the door was opened, and a little old
woman peered out, holding a candle above her head. On seeing the pale
face close before her, she drew back, and made as if to shut the
window; for, as a result of poring over newspapers, she lived in
continual expectation of robbery and murder.

"She is not at home," she said with tremulous bravado, in answer to the
young man's question, and again was about to close the window. But
Maurice thrust in his hand, and she could not shut without crushing it.

"Then she is still here? Has she gone out? When will she be back?" he
queried.

"How should I know? And look here, young man, if you don't take away
your hand and leave the house at once, I shall call from the window for
a policeman."

He went slowly down the stairs and across the street, and took up anew
his position in the dark doorway--a proceeding which did not reassure
Fraulein Grunhut, who, regarding his inquiries as a feint, was watching
his movements from between the slats of a window-blind. But Maurice had
not stood again for more than a quarter of an hour, when a feeling of
nausea seized him, and this reminded him that he had practically eaten
nothing since the morning. If he meant to hold out, he must snatch a
bite of food somewhere; afterwards, he would return and wait, if he had
to wait all night.

In front of the PANORAMA on the ROSSPLATZ, he ran into the arms of
Furst, and the latter, when he heard where Maurice was going, had
nothing better to do than to accompany him, and drink a SCHNITT. Furst,
who was in capital spirits at the prospect of the evening, laughed
heartily, told witty anecdotes, and slapped his fat thigh, the type of
rubicund good-humour; and as he was not of an observant turn of mind,
he did not notice his companion's abstraction. Hardly troubling to
dissemble, Maurice paid scant attention to Furst's talk; he ate avidly,
and as soon as he had finished, pushed back his chair and called t