had all grown quiet around
him, till his wife had put the children to bed and laid herself to
rest, till he no longer saw any light in Apollonius' windows, did the
talons relax their hold and the chains draw the stronger. He locked
the back door which separated Apollonius from the rest of the house,
he even bolted it as well, and locked the door of the stairs leading
to the piazza and finally the door at which he went out. He had cause
for haste without knowing it. The disagreeable-looking workman could
not stay much longer. Fritz Nettenmair did not yet know that
Apollonius had been to the quarry owner and succeeded in having the
workman dismissed, had talked to the police and brought it about that
the workman might no longer let himself be seen in the neighborhood on
the morrow. The workman was ready for his departure; from the public
house he was going straight out into the wide world. He only wanted to
take leave of his former master and tell him something more before he
went.

There was little left in the world to which Fritz Nettenmair was
attached. The road that he had been traveling led farther and farther
down from what he loved most; it was irretrievably lost to him. He
would never again be the centre of admiration and flattery. All that
still bound him to his wife was the searing chain of jealousy. He
never had been fond of his father; he hated his brother. He knew
himself to be hated or, in his madness, believed himself to be hated.
Little Annie would have clung to him with all the strength of a
child's heart longing to be loved, but he drove her away from him with
hatred; to him she was "the spy." To one man alone did his heart
cling, to the one who least deserved it. He knew that the man had
cheated him, had helped to ruin him, and still he clung to him. The
man hated Apollonius, he was the only person besides himself who hated
Apollonius and therefore Apollonius' brother clung to him!

Fritz Nettenmair accompanied the workman a part of his way. The
workman wanted to walk faster, so he thanked him for his company,
intending to proceed alone. When others part their last words are of
what they both love; Fritz Nettenmair's and the workman's last words
were of their hatred. The workman knew that Apollonius would have
liked to have put him in the penitentiary, if he could. As the two now
stood facing each other at parting, the workman measured the other
with his eye. It was an evil, lurking glance, a grimly s