to
which he belonged.

In a way, he was a stupid man, this pale-eyed clerk who sold the quaint
red and yellow cottons of the common people side by side with the heavy
linens that furnished forth the tables of the rich. But hatred gave him
wits. Gave him speed, too. He was only thirty feet behind Peter Niburg
when that foppish gentleman reached the corner.

Herman was skilled in certain matters. He knew, for instance, that
a glance into a shop window, a halt to tie a shoe, may be a ruse for
passing a paper to other hands. But Peter did not stop. He went, not
more swiftly than usual, to his customary restaurant, one which faced
over the Square and commanded a view of the Palace. And there he settled
himself in a window and ordered his dinner.

From the outside Herman stared in. He did not dine there. It was, for
one thing, a matter of bitterness to see sitting at the cashier's high
desk, the little Marie, grown somewhat with flesh, it is true, but still
lovely in his eyes. It made Herman wince, even now, to see through the
window that her husband patted her hand as he brought her money to be
changed.

He lurked in the shadows outside, and watched. Peter sat alone. He had
bowed very stiffly to Marie, and had passed the desk with his chest out.
She had told him once that he had a fine figure.

Peter sat alone, and stared out. Herman took shelter, and watched. But
Peter Niburg did not see him. His eyes were fixed on the gloomy mass
across, shot with small lights from deep windows, which was the Palace.

Peter was calm. He had carried many such letters as the one now hidden
in his breast pocket. No conscience stirred in him. If he did not do
this work, others would. He shrugged his shoulders. He drank his brandy,
and glanced at Marie. He found her eyes on him. Pretty eyes they still
were, and just now speculative. He smiled at her, but she averted her
head, and colored. Many things filled Peter Niburg's mind. If now she
was not happy, what then? Her husband adored her. It was fatal. A woman
should not be too sure of a husband. And probably he bored her. Another
six months, and perhaps she would not turn away her head.

He had until midnight. At that hour a messenger would receive the letter
from him in the colonnade of the cathedral. On this night, each week,
the messenger waited. Sometimes there was a letter, sometimes none. That
was all. It was amazingly simple, and for it one received the difference
between penury