seized me again. Suddenly I felt that perhaps never would I know what
was going on in my father's house. That night, when the working people
were gone, I went into the studio. For a long time I was lost in my
thoughts. All kinds of romantic ideas passed through my head, while my
gaze rested on that small mysterious chamber door.

In the studio it was dark already, and from under the small door in a
thin border a yellow radiance poured out. Suddenly I regained my
courage. I went to the door and listened. Somebody was speaking. It
was a man's voice, but I did not understand what he was saying. I was
putting my ear close to the door, when I heard steps at the front of
the studio. Father came.

I quickly withdrew myself behind the barrel. Father walked through the
hall and knocked on the door softly. The bolt clicked and the door
opened. Father went into the chamber and closed the door immediately
and locked it.

Now all discretion and sense of honor in me came to an end. Curiosity
mastered me. I knew that last year one part of this small room had
been partitioned off and was used as a woodhouse. And I knew that
there was a possibility of going into the woodhouse through the yard.

I went out, therefore, but found the woodhouse was closed. Driven by
trembling curiosity, I ran into the house, took the key of the
woodhouse from its nail, and in a minute, through the crevice between
two planks, I was looking into that mysterious little room.

There was a table in the middle of the room, and beside the wall were
two straw mattresses. On the table a lighted candle stood. A bottle of
wine was beside it, and around the table were sitting father and two
strangers. Both the strangers were all in black. Something in their
appearance froze me with terror.

I fled in a panic of unreasoning fear, but returned soon, devoured by
curiosity.

You, my sister Irma, must remember how I found you there, gazing with
starting eyeballs on the same mysteriously terrifying scene--and how I
drew you away with a laugh and a trifling explanation, so that I might
return and resume my ghastly vigil alone.

One of the strangers wore a frock coat and had a sunburned, brown
face. He was not old yet, not more than forty-five or forty-eight. He
seemed to be a tradesman in his Sunday clothes. That did not interest
me much.

I looked at the other old man, and then a shiver of cold went through
me. He was a famous physician, a professor, Mr. H----.