ory which followed. After Helmine's rejection of Otto's suit, and
the flight or captivity of Count Kasincsky, leaving a large sum of money
in Otto's hands, it would be easy for "Jean," by mingled persuasions and
threats, to move the latter to flight, after dividing the money still
remaining in his hands. After the theft, and the partition, which took
place beyond the Polish frontier, "Jean" in turn, stole his accomplice's
share, together with the Von Herisau documents.

Exile and a year's experience of organized mendicancy did the rest.

Otto Lindenschmidt was one of those natures which possess no moral
elasticity--which have neither the power nor the comprehension
of atonement. The first real, unmitigated guilt--whether great
or small--breaks them down hopelessly. He expected no chance of
self-redemption, and he found none. His life in America was so utterly
dark and hopeless that the brightest moment in it must have been that
which showed him the approach of death.

My task was done. I had tracked this weak, vain, erring, hunted soul to
its last refuge, and the knowledge bequeathed to me but a single duty.
His sins were balanced by his temptations; his vanity and weakness
had revenged themselves; and there only remained to tell the simple,
faithful sister that her sacrifices were no longer required. I burned
the evidences of guilt, despair and suicide, and sent the other
papers, with a letter relating the time and circumstances of Otto
Lindenschmidt's death, to the civil authorities of Breslau, requesting
that they might be placed in the hands of his sister Elise.

This, I supposed, was the end of the history, so far as my connection
with it was concerned. But one cannot track a secret with impunity;
the fatality connected with the act and the actor clings even to the
knowledge of the act. I had opened my door a little, in order to look
out upon the life of another, but in doing so a ghost had entered in,
and was not to be dislodged until I had done its service.

In the summer of 1867 I was in Germany, and during a brief journey
of idlesse and enjoyment came to the lovely little watering-place of
Liebenstein, on the southern slope of the Thuringian Forest. I had no
expectation or even desire of making new acquaintances among the gay
company who took their afternoon coffee under the noble linden trees on
the terrace; but, within the first hour of my after-dinner leisure, I
was greeted by an old friend, an author, f