rise, asked the stranger, civilly, to be seated, and desired to know
if he had any message to leave for his master.

'Tell Gerard Douw,' said the unknown, without altering his attitude in
the smallest degree, 'that Mynher Vanderhauseny of Rotterdam, desires
to speak with him to-morrow evening at this hour, and, if he please, in
this room, upon matters of weight--that is all. Good-night.'

The stranger, having finished this message, turned abruptly, and, with a
quick but silent step, quitted the room, before Schalken had time to say
a word in reply.

The young man felt a curiosity to see in what direction the burgher of
Rotterdam would turn on quitting the studio, and for that purpose he
went directly to the window which commanded the door.

A lobby of considerable extent intervened between the inner door of the
painter's room and the street entrance, so that Schalken occupied the
post of observation before the old man could possibly have reached the
street.

He watched in vain, however. There was no other mode of exit.

Had the old man vanished, or was he lurking about the recesses of the
lobby for some bad purpose? This last suggestion filled the mind of
Schalken with a vague horror, which was so unaccountably intense as to
make him alike afraid to remain in the room alone and reluctant to pass
through the lobby.

However, with an effort which appeared very disproportioned to the
occasion, he summoned resolution to leave the room, and, having
double-locked the door and thrust the key in his pocket, without looking
to the right or left, he traversed the passage which had so recently,
perhaps still, contained the person of his mysterious visitant, scarcely
venturing to breathe till he had arrived in the open street.

'Mynher Vanderhausen,' said Gerard Douw within himself, as the appointed
hour approached, 'Mynher Vanderhausen of Rotterdam! I never heard of the
man till yesterday. What can he want of me? A portrait, perhaps, to be
painted; or a younger son or a poor relation to be apprenticed; or a
collection to be valued; or--pshaw I there's no one in Rotterdam to
leave me a legacy. Well, whatever the business may be, we shall soon
know it all.'

It was now the close of day, and every easel, except that of Schalken,
was deserted. Gerard Douw was pacing the apartment with the restless
step of impatient expectation, every now and then humming a passage from
a piece of music which he was himself composing; for, th