But one day while Albert was seated at the long table copying a letter and thinking of other things, the postman came in. Albert looked up eagerly. Although he had already given up hope of hearing from Hedwiga, the postman revived his anxiety. But no letter for him. So he watched Rindskopf from the corner of his eye. He loved to watch Rindskopf open his mail. Rindskopf approached this task as a gourmand attacks a palatable dish. His eyes dilated, his bulky stolid body stirred restlessly in his chair, his lips twitched, avidity in every gesture. Then he took the large ivory paper-cutter in one hand, and with the other tapped the edge of the envelope against his desk and, raising it on a level with his eyes, screwed one eye almost tight as he fixed the other at the upper end, which he held against the light, and ripped it open with the utmost care for fear of touching the contents. “_Tausend Donner Sakrament!_” Adolf suddenly exclaimed and jumped up from the chair, with the enclosure of the envelope in his hand. Albert poised his pen, an amused smile on his boyish countenance. Rindskopf’s face was flushed, his mustache twitched, his paw-like hands trembled. “_Ach, du lieber Gott!_” he called upon the Almighty to witness his distress, and rushed up to Albert. “You’ll bring ruination on me—what? Where is your head—what do you—” He was so enraged that coherent speech would not come. Albert’s face changed color. He paled a trifle and was terrified. “This is a fine piece of business,” Rindskopf soon regained his voice—“What did you do with that bill of exchange?” This strange demand puzzled poor Albert. He stared fretfully at his employer. “What did you do with that bill of exchange I gave you the other day to forward to Berlin?” Rindskopf repeated, panting. “—I—I enclosed it in the letter—as you told me—” Albert stammered. Adolf’s eyes were dancing over the letter in his hand. Presently he was reading its contents aloud. “‘My dear Herr Rindskopf: “‘In Frankfort, the birthplace of Goethe, love-songs may be called bills of exchange, but in our prosaic city of Berlin we mean precisely what we say. We have tried to cash the enclosed but without success; perhaps you can do better with it in your home town—’” Rindskopf had caught the facetious tone of the letter and burst out in enraged laughter. “Fine business I call this!” he cried as he continued reading the ironic reply, accentuating every syllable, contempt in his voice: “‘We are therefore returning your amorous ditty, much as we appreciate your romantic sentiments, and beg to send us instead a plain, matter-of-fact bill of exchange.’” Adolf was beside himself. He called Albert a good-for-nothing, cursed the day he had let the boy enter the bank, swore that his wife had warned him against taking Zorn’s son into his house. He then raised the returned enclosure to his eyes and began to read— The money-changer was shaking with scornful laughter as he read on.