elf at eight o'clock at the office of the
hotel and ask to be directed to the room of Hans Grumbach.

"Now, who is Hans Grumbach? I never knew or heard of a man of that
name."

Nevertheless, he decided to go. Certainly this man Grumbach did not urge
him without some definite purpose. He laid down his pipe, reached for
his hat and coat--for in the lodge he generally went about in his
shirt-sleeves--and went over to the hotel. The concierge, who knew
Hermann, conducted him to room ten on the entresole. Hermann knocked. A
voice bade him enter. Ah, it was the German-American, whose papers had
puzzled his excellency.

"You wished to see me, Herr Grumbach?"

"Yes," said Grumbach, offering a chair.

Hermann accepted the courtesy with dignity. His host drew up another
chair to the opposite side of the reading-table. The light overhead put
both faces in a semishadow.

"You are Hermann Breunner," began Grumbach.

"Yes."

"You once had a brother named Hans."

Hermann grew rigid in his chair. "I have no brother," he replied, his
voice dull and empty.

"Perhaps not now," continued Grumbach, "but you did have."

Hermann's head drooped. "My God, yes, I did have a brother; but he was a
scoundrel."

Grumbach lighted a cigar. He did not offer one to Hermann, who would
have refused it.

"Perhaps he was a scoundrel. He is--dead!" softly.

"God's will be done!" But Hermann's face turned lighter.

"As a boy he loved you."

"And did I not love him?" said Hermann fiercely. "Did I not worship that
boy, who was to me more like a son than a brother? Had not all the
brothers and sisters died but he? But you--who are you to recall these
things?"

"I knew your brother; I knew him well. He was not a scoundrel; only
weak. He went to America and became successful in business. He fought
with the North in the war. He was not a coward; he did his fighting
bravely and honorably."

"Oh, no; Hans could never, have been a coward; even his villainy
required courage. But go on."

"He died facing the enemy, and his last words were of you. He begged
your forgiveness; he implored that you forget that black moment. He was
young, he said; and they offered him a thousand crowns. In a moment of
despair he fell."

"Despair? Did he confess to you the crime he committed?"

"Yes."

"Did he tell you to whom he sold his honor?"

"That he never knew. A Gipsy from the hills came to him, so he said.

"From Jugendheit?"

"I say that he knew n