"Calm yourself!" she heard him say at last. "You are innocent in the whole affair. Believe me; the child is not lost--oh, no! it is in excellent hands. Can a child be safer anywhere than with the mother who bore it?" The weeping woman raised herself and looked at him inquiringly. "Yes, yes!" he repeated, laughing bitterly. "You have never been told about that, my good friend; it was very thoughtless of me not to have spoken to you about it the very first thing this morning. My wife has made her appearance again; she gave me a specimen of her acting last night--a benefit performance in Paradise--a short scene, but very effective. And now this is the second act. That the third, in which I am to play too, will be the last, you may be very sure." "She is here, she has the child, and you know where she is to be found?" "Not yet. However, I know some one who knows all about it, whom I think I can talk into giving me the necessary information. By-the-way, it must be about the time--almost four o'clock; let us go!" "Go alone, unless you have particular need of me. My knees can hardly bear me. The anxiety--Oh! let me rest here just for a few moments." "I'll order a drosky. You mustn't think of walking back such a long distance. We will ride part of the way together." He called the janitor and sent him out for a carriage. Then he paced with long strides up and down the studio in profound silence, while the woman sank back into a chair, and struggled hard to compose herself. In the midst of this painful stillness, they all at once heard the voice of the battle-painter in the entry. He and Felix came in together, and his unsteady step, pale face, and disheveled aspect, showed plainly enough that the horrors of the preceding night were still fresh in his memory. He greeted Jansen with a most depressed mien, and the jokes that he tried to make sounded anything but cheerful. He would not have shown himself in such a wretched condition had he not happened to fall in with something that might possibly be of importance to Jansen. An hour ago he had crept into the open air for the first time that day, his head still heavy from the wine that he had dolefully poured down his throat the night before, in the hope of drowning his dismay at that murderous tragedy with poor old Homo. As he did not want to meet any of his acquaintances, he took the road that leads out through the gates, visiting, among other places, the cemetery, and feeling quite in a mood to seek a resting-place there himself. On his return, as he was passing the Sendling gate, he saw a traveling carriage, loaded down with trunks, roll out and turn into the country high-road.