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"He arrived this morning and disappeared. Tonight he sent me orders that I was to search for you." "Where is he now?" Julien asked. "At eight o'clock tonight," Estermen said, "he declared himself to be Herr Carl Freudenberg, dealer in German toys.

Even she herself knew that she was singing as she never sang at the Opera, as she had never sung when a great impressario had come to try her voice, as one sings only when the heart is shaking a little, and as she finished, the fingers of her left hand slowly crept across the table into the hand of Herr Freudenberg, the toymaker, and her last notes were sung almost in a whisper into his ears.

Herr Freudenberg was dressed for the evening with his usual fastidious neatness. He had the air of a man who had been engaged for many nights in some arduous occupation. There were dark rims under his eyes, the lines upon his forehead were deeper. Nevertheless, he smiled with something of his old gayety as he accepted the chair which Julien placed for him.

He stood looking at the result of their labors now with a well-satisfied aspect. "But it is perfect," he declared. "The orders of Monsieur Freudenberg have indeed been delightfully carried out. You will present the account as usual, mademoiselle," he directed the florist, who in her black frock, a little hot and flushed with her labors, was standing by his side.

"It is a coincidence, this. I am obliged for your forethought in mentioning it. Until later, then." The man made a somewhat clumsy bow, glanced admiringly at Herr Freudenberg's companion, and departed. Herr Freudenberg was shaking his head slowly. "I fear," he said softly to himself, "sometimes I fear that I am not so well served as might be in Paris. However, we shall see.

We were sensible of a pleasant coldness in the air when we had gone a little way into the sloping tunnel. The tunnel was lofty, wide, and dry. Having walked downwards on a gentle decline for a distance of nearly three thousand feet through the half gloom and among the echoes, we arrived at the mouth of the first shaft, named Freudenberg.

"I am glad to meet you, sir," he remarked. "It is odd, but your face seems familiar to me." Herr Freudenberg leaned over the table. "My friend, Mr. Kendricks," he said, "you are, I believe, a newspaper man, and you should know the world. When you see a face that is familiar to you in Paris, and in this Paris, it goes well that you forget that familiarity, eh?" Kendricks nodded.

People would not have believed that I had any other motive. I should have declared that it was a love affair." "What happened?" "He was too quick for me," mademoiselle admitted. "He saw me feel the spot where the pistol lay concealed. He he snatched it away." "And afterwards?" Herr Freudenberg inquired, with the ghost of a smile upon his lips. She raised her eyes. "He let me go," she replied.

Monsieur Freudenberg has gone. The earth swallows him." "Back to my toys, mademoiselle," he whispered. "One has one's work." She looked at him long and tenderly. "Monsieur," she said, "it is two months, a week and three days since you were in Paris. Since then I have sung and danced, night by night, but my heart has never been gay.

It was a chance remark I heard no more. It certainly, however, did suggest some association. There is a man who comes often to Paris, who calls himself a maker of toys. He says that he comes from Leipzig and that his name is Herr Freudenberg." She sat as still as a statue. Not a line of her features was changed. Julien turned a little in his seat.