He was just pondering upon the best excuse for dissolving partnership with the Ricardos altogether, when the Wheel of Fortune did for him what he was contemplating doing for himself. He had come to London poor and without expectations, when by one of those strokes of good fortune that do occasionally happen in this world, a rich uncle of his died suddenly in Berlin, and left him his entire fortune. He rushed to the Professor with the news, almost unable to believe it to be true. “My dearest friend, I am a wealthy man! My good uncle the Baron von Steinberg, who was the richest publisher in Berlin, has died and left me everything--everything! Congratulate me! Give me your hand! Let me feel that my best friend is glad with me! _Ach! Himmel!_ we will be happy now, and have a good time together.” “A thousand congratulations, my dear Steinberg,” cried the Professor, warmly wringing his hand. “But I must leave you! I must go to Berlin without delay. The lawyers have written for me. As yet I know nothing but the fact, but when I get there, I will write to you, dear Ricardo, and tell you all.” “And won’t you come back to the cottage?” inquired Hannah. “I do not know, Hannah. All is vague at present, except that this good luck has befallen me! My uncle’s fortune amounted, so I am told, to many thousand pounds a year, so perhaps I may have to live in Berlin. I cannot tell, but be sure of one thing--that I will never forget you, my dear Ricardo, nor all the interest you have shown in me. Farewell!” The men grasped hands again, whilst Hannah looked on and murmured, “Thousands of pounds a year! Some people are lucky! Why didn’t _he_ take a fancy for me, instead of the other?” CHAPTER XI. The Professor felt very dull for the first few days after Karl Steinberg had left them for Berlin. He rejoiced at the good fortune that had befallen his friend, but he feared it might prove a separation between them. With only Hannah to talk to, he felt more lonely than he had ever done in Mrs. Battleby’s apartments. He watched for the post eagerly, to bring him news of his absent companion, and in about ten days his patience was rewarded by receiving a letter from Steinberg. The Doctor wrote gaily and enthusiastically. He seemed not to have a care left in the world. “Congratulate me, my very kind friend,” he commenced; “I am a wealthier man than I imagined. We laid my good uncle to rest in the family vault of the Von Steinbergs, three days after my arrival in Berlin. He was a childless man, and when the will was read I found that (with the exception of a liberal life-allowance to his widow) he had left everything, without reserve, to your humble servant. His house in Berlin--his château at Wiesbaden--his fortune, amounting to between three and four thousand a year--and all his personal property, which includes one of the finest private picture galleries in the country.