THE DEAD ARE SILENT By Arthur Schnitzler Copyright, 1907, by Courtland H. Young HE could endure the quiet waiting in the carriage no longer; it was easier to get out and walk up and down. It was now dark; the few scattered lamps in the narrow side street quivered uneasily in the wind. The rain had stopped, the sidewalks were almost dry, but the rough-paved roadway was still moist, and little pools gleamed here and there. “Strange, isn’t it?” thought Franz. “Here we are scarcely a hundred paces from the Prater, and yet it might be a street in some little country town. Well, it’s safe enough, at any rate. She won’t meet any of the friends she dreads so much here.” He looked at his watch. “Only just seven, and so dark already! It is an early autumn this year... and then this confounded storm I...” He turned his coat-collar up about his neck and quickened his pacing. The glass in the street lamps rattled lightly. “Half an hour more,” he said to himself, “then I can go home. I could almost wish--that that half-hour were over.” He stood for a moment on the corner, where he could command a view of both streets. “She’ll surely come to-day,” his thoughts ran on, while he struggled with his hat, which threatened to blow away. “It’s Friday.... Faculty meeting at the University; she needn’t hurry home.” He heard the clanging of street-car gongs, and the hour chimed from a nearby church tower. The street became more animated. Hurrying figures passed him, clerks of neighboring shops; they hastened onward, fighting against the storm. No one noticed him; a couple of half-grown girls glanced up in idle curiosity as they went by. Suddenly he saw a familiar figure coming toward him. He hastened to meet her.... Could it be she? On foot? She saw him, and quickened her pace. “You are walking?” he asked. “I dismissed the cab in front of the theatre. I think I’ve had that driver before.” A man passed them, turning to look at the lady. Her companion glared at him, and the other passed on hurriedly. The lady looked after him. “Who was it?” she asked, anxiously. “Don’t know him. We’ll see no one we know here, don’t worry. But come now, let’s get into the cab.” “Is that your carriage?” “Yes.” “An open one?” “It was warm and pleasant when I engaged it an hour ago.” They walked to the carriage; the lady stepped in. “Driver!” called the man. “Why, where is he?” asked the lady. Franz looked around. “Well, did you ever? I don’t see him anywhere.” “Oh--” her tone was low and timid. “Wait a moment, child, he must be around here somewhere.” The young man opened the door of a little saloon, and discovered his driver at a table with several others. The man rose hastily. “In a minute, sir,” he explained, swallowing his glass of wine. “What do you mean by this?” “All right, sir... Be there in a minute.” His step was a little unsteady as he hastened to his horses. “Where’ll you go, sir?” “Prater--Summer-house.”