“If I am not better in a few hours,” he said slowly, “that is, when there is no hope of my recovery, you may write to Edelhof—I do not wish to see any of my family—not even Agnes—coming from the country, they would be too liable to infection.” “But,” said Hamilton, “I do not see Doctor Berger—why have you not sent for him?” “Because I am here, and not in my own house, and he tells everything to his chattering wife, who relates, with interest, all she hears to whoever will listen to her.” “But why _are_ you here?” asked Hamilton. A violent spasm put an end to the conversation, nor was it possible to renew it. Zedwitz hourly became worse, Hamilton proportionably anxious. At length he sent not only for Doctor Berger, but also for his friend Biedermann, and when they had declared Zedwitz’s case almost hopeless, he wrote as he had been desired to Edelhof, and employed his servant Hans as courier. Late in the evening Zedwitz lay motionless from exhaustion. Biedermann had more than once held a feather under his nostrils to ascertain if he still breathed. Hamilton rose slowly from his station by the bed, and walked cautiously to one of the small windows. On reaching it, he stumbled over a large telescope which was pointed against a round hole, evidently cut in the curtain—he was about to remove the telescope to avoid a recurrence of the noise which he had just made, but, on second thoughts, he seated himself on a chair conveniently placed beside it, and applied his eye to the glass.