Wherever a drop of the fluid had fallen, the cloth turned red; and before the perplexed violinist could find an explanation for this remarkable metamorphosis, there appeared upon the coat an infinite number of large and small holes which sealed its doom for now and eternity. It so happened that instead of benzine, Schnorps had laid hold of a bottle of sulphuric acid, which he had once used to clean the screws of his instrument. When he realised what had happened, he certainly expected to go mad, and he weakly fell back in his chair, gazing fixedly upon his murdered swallow-tail. His head whirled--the new coat--his wife--the 15 thalers--the intendant--sulphuric acid--all was swallowed up in one wild eddy, and it was some time before he regained any self-possession. Ye saints! it would never do to have his wife get hold of this! The first thing to do was to remove the article in question. Hastily he dressed himself, slipped on his felt slippers, hid the dress-coat beneath his dressing-gown, and stealthily crept upstairs, where he hid it, with many misgivings, in the utmost depths of the old wardrobe. It was high time, for when he came back his better-half appeared upon the scene. Never had she inspired him with such terror as at this moment, and yet never since the days of their honeymoon had he bidden her good-morning as tenderly as he did to-day. She too was unusually amiable, a fact which only weighed the more upon his guilty conscience. “Well, did you have a pleasant evening?” she asked. “Oh yes, very nice--yes--quite nice!” he replied, in an embarrassed tone of voice. “Oh, indeed!” she said, glancing about her as if she were looking for something, which caused poor Schnorps to tremble again. “What are you looking for, dear?” She gazed at him in surprise. Dear? He had only called her so once before, and that was when he asked her if she would have him. “Nothing--that is--where’s your new coat?” “The coat,” he answered, shaking in his shoes; “what do you want it for?” “I should like to put it away,” she said very gently. “You needn’t do that. I put it where it belongs.” “Where it belongs?” she asked in great excitement. “Why yes,” replied Schnorps; “upstairs in the wardrobe.” “Ah, so,” she remarked, greatly relieved--“in the wardrobe! Yes, yes! Well, come and have your breakfast, Gottlieb; I am coming down in a minute.” With these words she walked out, and now it was Schnorps’ turn to take a deep breath of relief. He finished dressing and gradually became more tranquil--but it was the tranquillity that precedes a mighty storm. The reader can readily imagine what followed. After a pause of ten minutes, the shrill voice of Frau Sally rang through the house in a manner which made all the inmates start and tremble. Intending to return the borrowed coat to its rightful possessor, she had discovered the catastrophe, and raged like a lunatic.