s in the habit of doing.
A woman had written it, no doubt a girl the letters were carefully
formed, with no character in them. And the person had evidently
endeavoured to disguise her writing.

"If you wish to find out anything about your son, you must go to
140, Puttkammerstrasse, and watch the third storey in the back
building, left side wing, where 'Knappe' is written above the bell.
There she lives."

No name had been signed underneath it; "A Good Friend" was all that
was written below.

Paul Schlieben had a feeling as if the paper were burning his
fingers--common paper, but pink and smelling of cheap perfumed soap--an
anonymous letter, faugh! What had this trash to do with them? He was
about to crumple it up when Kate's voice called to him from the bed:
"What have you got there, Paul? A letter? Show me it."

And as he approached her, but only slowly, hesitatingly, she raised
herself up and tore the letter out of his hand. She read it and cried
out in a loud voice: "Frida Laemke has written that. I'm sure it's from
her. She was going to look for him--and her brother and the man she's
engaged to--they will have found him. Puttkammerstrasse--where is that?
140, we shall have to go there. Immediately, without delay. Ring for
the maid. My shoes, my things--oh, I can't find anything. For goodness'
sake do ring. She must do my hair--oh, never mind, I can do it all
myself."

She had jumped out of bed in trembling haste; she was sitting in
front of her dressing-table now, combing her long hair herself. It was
tangled from lying in bed, but she combed it through with merciless
haste.

"If only we don't arrive too late. We shall have to make haste. He's
sure to be there, quite sure to be there. Why do you stand there
looking at me like that? Do get ready. I shall be ready directly, we
shall be able to go directly. Paul, dear Paul, we are sure to find him
there--oh God!" She threw out her arms, her weakness made her dizzy,
but her will conquered the weakness. Now she stood quite firmly on her
feet.

Nobody would have believed that she had just been lying in her bed
perfectly helpless. Her husband had not the courage to oppose her
wishes, besides, how could things be worse than they were? They could
never be worse than they were, and at all events she would never be
able to reproach him any more that he had not loved the boy.

When, barely half an hour later, they got into the carriage
Friedrich had telephoned for,