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Updated: June 22, 2025
"He has swallowed my story, and I fancy I see Mr. Fritz Braun's little game. I wonder if the Vienna witch is still over there. I must hurry up and post her. This young chap may be a good customer, for he handles plenty of money." And the brisk Figaro darted away, his eyes gleaming in the ardor of the undying covetousness of the Israelite. While Mr.
It had been an exchange acceptable to both parties: an ocean of drink, a weekly pittance of food and raiment, for the valuable attested documents which gave the disguised Viennese fugitive the right to boldly claim the Kaiser's official protection as "August Meyer." It was the very citadel of Braun's rising fortunes!
Sleep overcame her. She was at peace until day. About dawn she moved a little: Braun raised her head to give her to drink: she gulped down a few mouthfuls, and, stooping to Braun's hands, she kissed them. Once more she dozed off. On the Saturday morning she woke up about nine o'clock. Without saying a word, she began to slip out of bed.
"You must manage to get me a duplicate key of Clayton's rooms!" "Easy enough," proudly answered the young rascal. "Mr. Clayton trusts me in all things, and often gives me his latch-key and the room keys when he wants anything from the apartment. Anything else?" "Yes," stammered the lad, surprised at the stern glare of Braun's expectant eyes. "The Fidelity fellows have been piping off all Mr.
My wife has been very ill since the loss of our child," was Braun's ready response. "So feeble that I did not dare to drag her across New York. At least, she has some comfort in this way. Poor thing! She is fast asleep! We have to give her sedatives; her nerves are simply wrecked. I hope that a couple of years abroad will restore her." Braun handed the Captain fifty dollars.
"I have a five for your crew," he said, good humoredly, "if we make a neat landing alongside." It was eleven o'clock when the stout tug ran alongside the 'Mesopotamia. The old ex-liner was an "occasional" now, and all ready to depart for Stettin. On Braun's hail, a burly chief steward descended the companionway, with a half dozen assistants.
He flung himself into Braun's arms. "My dear Christophe, my dear Christophe!" said Braun.... "He is weeping.... Well, well what is it?... Anna! Anna!... Quick, he has fainted...." Christophe had collapsed in his host's arms. He had succumbed to the fainting fit which had been imminent for several hours. When he opened his eyes again he was lying in a great bed.
And still, as yet, they slept in peace, for the dark waters of the East River had not given up that ghastly mute witness whirling and diving in the black under eddies around the rock-hewn pyramids of the Brooklyn Bridge. A thousand pairs of eager eyes now watched the money exchanges of America and Europe for any paltry bit of the plunder stored away in Fritz Braun's black valise.
But, throwing himself back into the "gallery position," McNerney tossed his revolver at the point blank. The heavy crack of the pistol was followed by a yell of rage as the American sprang forward, planting his foot firmly on Fritz Braun's chest. Atwater had kicked the knife a score of yards away, when Sergeant Breyman thrust his burly form in front of the fallen woman.
He had not forgotten the pledge they had given each other at the dawn of that sad day. He was ready to keep it if Anna demanded it of him. But he saw the absurdity of their dying together, how it would not solve the problem, and how the sorrow of it and the scandal must fall upon Braun's shoulders.
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