Part 33 (1/2)

”It is no fault of yours. Neither you nor I could have kept him alive.

Now, leave me here alone; you may wait in the next room.”

After Konski had left, the doctor went to the little round table on which the empty bottle and two gla.s.ses were standing, one empty, one half-full. Above the sofa, to the right and left, were gas-brackets, with one lighted jet on either side. He held the half-full gla.s.s to the light and shook it. Bright beads were rising from the clear, liquid.

He put the gla.s.s down again, and murmured--

”He never spoke an untruth! It was in any case solely a question of time. He drank his death-draught six months ago. The only wonder is that he bore it so long.”

Erna's letter was lying upon the table. The doctor read it almost mechanically.

”Pretty much as I thought!” he muttered. ”Such a clever and, as it would seem, large-hearted girl, and yet--but they are all alike!”

A sc.r.a.p of paper, with something in Bertram's hand writing caught his eye. It was the German telegram.

”All hail--happiness and blessing--to-day and for ever--for my darling child in Quisisana.”

The doctor rose, and was now pacing up and down the chamber with folded arms. From the adjoining room, the door of which was left ajar, he heard suppressed sobs. The faithful servant's unconcealed grief had well-nigh unchained the bitter sorrow in his own heart. He brushed the tears from his eyes, stepped to the couch, and drew the covering back.

He stood there long, lost in marvelling contemplation.