ma, that there are three names in the business. The
inscription over the door in Main Street is Wagner, Keller, and Engelman.
Fritz once told me that the office here in Frankfort was only the small
office--and the grand business was Mr. Wagner's business in London. Am I
right, Mr. David?"

"Quite right, Miss Minna. But we have no such magnificent flower-garden
at the London house as Mr. Engelman's flower-garden here. May I offer you
a nosegay which he allowed me to gather?"

I had hoped to make the flowers a means of turning the conversation to
more interesting topics. But the widow resumed her questions, while Minna
was admiring the flowers.

"Then you are Mr. Wagner's clerk?" she persisted.

"I _was_ Mr. Wagner's clerk. Mr. Wagner is dead."

"Ha! And who takes care of the great business now?"

Without well knowing why, I felt a certain reluctance to speak of my aunt
and her affairs. But Widow Fontaine's eyes rested on me with a resolute
expectation in them which I felt myself compelled to gratify. When she
understood that Mr. Wagner's widow was now the chief authority in the
business, her curiosity to hear everything that I could tell her about my
aunt became all but insatiable. Minna's interest in the subject was, in
quite another way, as vivid as her mother's. My aunt's house was the
place to which cruel Mr. Keller had banished her lover. The inquiries of
the mother and daughter followed each other in such rapid succession that
I cannot pretend to remember them now. The last question alone remains
vividly impressed on my memory, in connection with the unexpected effect
which my answer produced. It was put by the widow in these words:

"Your aunt is interested, of course, in the affairs of her partners in
this place. Is it possible, Mr. David, that she may one day take the
journey to Frankfort?"

"It is quite likely, madam, that my aunt may be in Frankfort on business
before the end of the year."

As I replied in those terms the widow looked round slowly at her
daughter. Minna was evidently quite as much at a loss to understand the
look as I was. Madame Fontaine turned to me again, and made an apology.

"Pardon me, Mr. David, there is a little domestic duty that I had
forgotten." She crossed the room to a small table, on which
writing-materials were placed, wrote a few lines, and handed the paper,
without enclosing it, to Minna. "Give that, my love, to our good friend
downstairs--and, while you are in the