art world of Leipsic, and this world included beside the rich,
professional element, the wealthy publishers, of whom in this important
centre of Germany there were a large number. As Von Barwig stood
waiting for Poons to enter with him, he noticed Poons's outstretched
hand.

"Aren't you coming in?" he asked. Poons shook his head.

"I'd better not," he said simply.

"Why not?" asked Von Barwig.

"Because," Poons faltered. He did not want to tell his friend that at
such times as these it is better for a man to be alone with his
thoughts.

"Why not?" cried Von Barwig; but Poons did not speak. He stood like
some dumb animal awaiting his master's lash; and then Von Barwig knew
that Poons knew.

"Come!" said Von Barwig in a low, hard voice, with such firmness and
determination that Poons, in spite of himself, was compelled to go
forward. Silently they walked up three flights, neither of them
noticing the salute of the porter as they passed him. Anton took out
his keys and opened a door which led into a magnificently furnished
musical studio, the largest apartment in Koenigs Strasse. It was here
that he and Madam Elene Von Barwig, his wife, held their musical
receptions and entertained the great German and foreign artists that
came to Leipsic. These receptions were famous affairs, and invitations
were eagerly sought, not only by musical celebrities, but by such of
the nobility as happened to be in town. Members of the royal family
had been known to grace more than one of these affairs; for though a
conductor of the Leipsic Philharmonic is not necessarily a rich man,
his social position is unquestioned.

Perhaps some such fleeting thoughts as these--glimpses into the past
like those of a drowning man--came into Anton Von Barwig's
consciousness as he stepped quietly to the door leading from the
reception-room and studio and passed into the corridor toward the
living apartments. He listened intently; but hearing nothing, closed
the door quietly, and somewhat to Poons's alarm turned the key in the
lock.

"Now tell me," he demanded, in a voice that was as strange as it was
determined; "what do you know? Sit down." This last was a direct
command.

Poons felt that nothing was to be gained by silence. He had, so to
speak, put his foot in it by allowing himself, through sympathy in his
friend's affairs, to betray the fact that he knew what was troubling
him. He felt, therefore, that by making a clean breast o