not to desire any watch kept, least of all by this workman
who did not like him. And that was just why Fritz Nettenmair trusted
the workman and would not listen to warnings. When Fritz Nettenmair
said to his brother: "I am so sorry," he had just caught sight of the
workman. The latter's grin showed him that the workman saw through him
and knew what it was that he feared. He ground his teeth; half an hour
later he intrusted him with the watch and his place in the shed and
the quarry. It needed but few words. The workman understood what Fritz
told him that he must do; he also understood what Fritz did not tell
him and what he must do nevertheless. Fritz Nettenmair had as little
confidence in the fellow's honesty in the business as had Apollonius;
but the man's dishonesty there secured him his honesty where he needed
it more.

The old gentleman in the blue coat had worse dreams than ever; he
listened more anxiously than ever to every fleeting sound, heard more
in it, and added ever greater loads to what lay on his breast. But he
did not ask.

It was late one evening. From the tavern window Fritz Nettenmair had
seen Apollonius leave his hanging seat and tie it to the scaffold.
According to his custom, he hurried out of the restaurant so as to get
home before Apollonius. He found his wife in the living-room, busy
about her household work. The workman came in and made his customary
report. Then he whispered something to his master and went.

Fritz Nettenmair sat down at the table with his wife. He usually sat
there until the sound of the workman's shuffling tread in the hall
told him that Apollonius had gone to bed. Then he went back again to
his tavern; he knew that the house was safe from thieves, the workman
was on the watch.

The feeling that he had his wife in his hand and that she resigned
herself to the situation with suffering had until now aided the wine
to cast over him a faint reflection of the jovial condescension which
formerly had shone like the sun from every button of his clothes.
Today the reflection was unusually faint--perhaps because her eye had
not sought the ground when it met his glance. He put a few indifferent
questions, and then said: "You have been merry today." He wanted her
to feel that he knew everything that went on in the house even when he
was not there. "You were singing."

She looked at him calmly and said: "Yes, and tomorrow I'll sing again.
I don't know why I shouldn't."

He got u