n with a doubting eye, as if there
were something about him that was not quite clear and above-board. The
dust and fatigue were, however, unmistakable.

"Who sent you to me, anyway?" he grumbled.

"Oh, I do not know," was the half-impatient answer; "the man I lodged
with in Dantzig or another, I forget. It was Koch the locksmith in the
Schmiedegasse. See, I have money. I tell you it is for one night. Say
yes or no. I want to get to bed and to sleep."

"How much do you pay?"

"A thaler--if you like. Among friends, one is willing to pay."

After a short minute of hesitation the shoemaker opened the door wider
and came out.

"And there will be another thaler for the horse, which I shall have
to take to the stable of the wood-merchant at the corner. Go into the
workshop and sit down till I come."

He stood in the doorway and watched the soldier seat himself wearily on
a bench in the workshop among the ancient boots, past repair, one would
think, and lean his head against the wall.

He was half asleep already, and the bootmaker, who was lame, shrugged
his shoulders as he led away the tired horse, with a gesture half of
pity, half of doubting suspicion. Had it suggested itself to his mind,
and had it been within the power of one so halt and heavy-footed to turn
back noiselessly, he would have found his visitor wide-awake enough,
hurriedly opening every drawer and peering under the twine and needles,
lifting every bale of leather, shaking out the very boots awaiting
repair.

When the dweller in Number Thirteen returned, the soldier was asleep,
and had to be shaken before he would open his eyes.

"Will you eat before you go to bed?" asked the bootmaker not unkindly.

"I ate as I came along the street," was the reply. "No, I will go to
bed. What time is it?"

"It is only seven o'clock--but no matter."

"No, it is no matter. To-morrow I must be astir by five."

"Good," said the shoemaker. "But you will get your money's worth. The
bed is a good one. It is my son's. He is away, and I am alone in the
house."

He led the way upstairs as he spoke, going heavily one step at a time,
so that the whole house seemed to shake beneath his tread. The room was
that attic in the roof which has a dormer window overhanging the linden
tree. It was small and not too clean; for Konigsberg was once a Polish
city, and is not far from the Russian frontier.

The soldier hardly noticed his surroundings, but sat down instantly,
with t