And when he at last dares to draw aside the curtain, what does he see? A coffin, from the pall of which a skull, with two crossed skeleton legs, grins at him in scorn. Blood-red flames and incense rise to the ceiling, and a sepulchral voice speaks in the clouds. "That is the coffin in which you will lie, in the same hour that you betray, by one word or look, what your eyes have seen, and your ears heard." So the shuddering young soul was to keep what he had seen and heard a secret, till the end of time. Hertha heard a bark, and as if waking out of a dream, saw Leo's figure, standing its full height, close beside her. The pug, who had evidently shown him the way, was at his heels. The book fell from her hand. Don Alvarez sank into the night of oblivion from which he had sprung. "What are you doing here, you burglars?" asked Leo in a laughing tone. He was answered by silence. "And how did you get in? Come, confess, Elly. The door was locked. How did you get in?" Hertha felt an internal swooning; but defiance choked in her throat. "You needn't rate Elly like that," she said, getting up; "as the door was locked, we naturally got through the window. There is nothing to be surprised at in that." "Indeed?" he said. "Nothing to be surprised at! And what brings you here?" "That we don't intend to tell," Hertha answered; "it is our concern alone." "Now, we shall see about that," he said. "I am not going to argue with you, my dear Hertha; you are beyond discipline. But you, Elly, come here a minute." And Elly, who had quite lost her presence of mind, regardless of a sign that Hertha made to her, divulged in stupid fear everything she should have kept to herself. "A letter?" he inquired. "A letter from Uncle Kutowski to you?" "Yes," she answered, crying. He simply put his hand in his pocket and produced the letter. "Is that it?" he asked. Elly supposed, with sobs, that it must be it. But as he looked as if he were going to wrench open the envelope, Hertha considered it her duty to interfere. "You surely will not be so unchivalrous," she said, "as to pry into other people's secrets." "I shall certainly be so unchivalrous," he responded, and tore the envelope open. "For shame," said Hertha, and turned away. But he read aloud, "'The Smiling Stars,' serenade composed for and dedicated to Fräulein Elly von Sellenthin, as a token of his esteem and regard, by Kurt Brenckenberg. _Cand. phil._" Whereupon he gave a little whistle and slowly ripped the beautiful verses into tiny fragments, which he scattered at his weeping sister's feet. "Let that be a lesson to you," he said, knitting his thick brows, "and if I find out anything of the sort has happened again it will be a bad look-out for you." "We may go now, I hope?" asked Hertha, as she scanned him sideways from under downcast lids. "Yes, you may go," he replied. "There's only one thing more to say: for the future there will be no more underhand dealings here. Do you understand?"