"Thank God that you've come!" she exclaimed joyfully as soon as she saw me. "I've been so dreadfully anxious all night. Just think, another letter came from Poland yesterday for the Herr Doctor; I knew where it came from by the stamp; well, I put it carefully in his flat candlestick that he might find it the very moment he came home. If I had only guessed what was in that letter--I'm an honest woman, sir, and have never stolen anything in my life, but I should have destroyed it, God forgive me! and thought it a good deed. For, just listen, sir. He came home early yesterday evening and asked me breathlessly if you had been here. 'No,' said I--'but there's a letter for you from Poland.' 'Where?' said he, running into his room and snatching up his letter. There must have been something dreadful in that letter, sir, for the doctor turned as pale as death, and shivered all over. Then, suddenly, he threw the letter away and began to laugh aloud--it made my blood run cold to hear him, it was such a mad laugh. Then he looked about him like this"--the old woman tried to put on an insane stare--"and shouted to me to go away--and--God forgive me!--I was so frightened that I ran away as quickly as I could. All was silent for a time, but soon I heard the doctor walking up and down, up and down, very quickly, and then he threw himself on the sofa and moaned quite low. I can't describe it, it made me shiver with terror; for, you see, a dreadful thing happened in this very house about two years ago. My neighbor's lodger, a young apothecary, poisoned himself because his sweetheart was false to him. I heard him moan just like the doctor last night; and I couldn't help thinking that it was the same story over again. So at last I summoned courage and went into the room. He started up, and stared at me as if he didn't know who I was. 'It's only me,' I said; 'are you ill?'--'No,' said he, 'I only want to be alone,' so I went away again, but the whole night long...." I left the old woman talking, and hastened to my friend's room. Adolf was sitting motionless in his arm-chair, his face buried in his hands--it almost seemed as if he must be asleep, he was so very still. When he heard the sound of my steps, he let his hands fall to his side and got up. I never saw the stamp of grief more strongly marked on any human face than on his as he turned toward me. "Read that," he said, hoarsely, at the same time pushing a letter nearer me that was lying on the table. I read as follows: