"Don't rustle the paper so horribly, I can't bear it," said the feeble woman irritably. Then he got up to creep out of the room--it was better he went, she did not like him near her. But his glance fell on one of the letters. Whose unformed, copy-book handwriting was that? Probably a begging letter. It was addressed to his wife, but she did not open any letters at present; and he positively longed to open just that letter. It was not curiosity, he felt as if he must do it. He opened the letter more quickly than he was in the habit of doing. A woman had written it, no doubt a girl the letters were carefully formed, with no character in them. And the person had evidently endeavoured to disguise her writing. "If you wish to find out anything about your son, you must go to 140, Puttkammerstrasse, and watch the third storey in the back building, left side wing, where 'Knappe' is written above the bell. There she lives." No name had been signed underneath it; "A Good Friend" was all that was written below. Paul Schlieben had a feeling as if the paper were burning his fingers--common paper, but pink and smelling of cheap perfumed soap--an anonymous letter, faugh! What had this trash to do with them? He was about to crumple it up when Kate's voice called to him from the bed: "What have you got there, Paul? A letter? Show me it." And as he approached her, but only slowly, hesitatingly, she raised herself up and tore the letter out of his hand. She read it and cried out in a loud voice: "Frida Laemke has written that. I'm sure it's from her. She was going to look for him--and her brother and the man she's engaged to--they will have found him. Puttkammerstrasse--where is that? 140, we shall have to go there. Immediately, without delay. Ring for the maid. My shoes, my things--oh, I can't find anything. For goodness' sake do ring. She must do my hair--oh, never mind, I can do it all myself." She had jumped out of bed in trembling haste; she was sitting in front of her dressing-table now, combing her long hair herself. It was tangled from lying in bed, but she combed it through with merciless haste. "If only we don't arrive too late. We shall have to make haste. He's sure to be there, quite sure to be there. Why do you stand there looking at me like that? Do get ready. I shall be ready directly, we shall be able to go directly. Paul, dear Paul, we are sure to find him there--oh God!" She threw out her arms, her weakness made her dizzy, but her will conquered the weakness. Now she stood quite firmly on her feet. Nobody would have believed that she had just been lying in her bed perfectly helpless. Her husband had not the courage to oppose her wishes, besides, how could things be worse than they were? They could never be worse than they were, and at all events she would never be able to reproach him any more that he had not loved the boy.