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He turned away from Peter Niburg, then faced him again. "If you care to come," he suggested. "Not a supper, you understand; but a glass of wine, Italian champagne," he added. Peter Niburg was fond of sweet champagne. Peter Niburg pushed his hat to the back of his head, and hung his stick over his forearm. After all, why not? Marie was gone. Let the past die.
In a shop where, that afternoon, the Countess had purchased some Lyons silks, one of the clerks, Peter Niburg, was free at last.
He had bowed very stiffly to Marie, and had passed the desk with his chest out. She had told him once that he had a fine figure. Peter sat alone, and stared out. Herman took shelter, and watched. But Peter Niburg did not see him. His eyes were fixed on the gloomy mass across, shot with small lights from deep windows, which was the Palace. Peter was calm.
He eyed his creature with cold anger. "It is a marvel," he sneered, "that such flight as yours has not brought the police in a pack at your heels." "I had the letter," Herman replied sulkily. "It was necessary to save it." "You were to see where Niburg took the substitute." But here Herman was the one to sneer. "Niburg!" he said.
Time had gone since the old church stood in a desert drear and wild, but still its chimes rang the old petition, hour after hour. At ten minutes past the hour, Nikky heard the engine of an automobile. No machine came in sight, but the throbbing kept on, from which he judged that a car had been stopped around the corner. Peter Niburg heard it, and rose.
He who was brave enough of tongue in the meetings, who was capable of rising to heights of cruelty that amounted to ferocity when one of a mob, was a coward alone. However, the sight of the restaurant, and of his fellow clerk eating calmly, quieted him. Peter Niburg was still alone. Herman took a table near him, and ordered a bowl of soup. His hands shook, but the hot food revived him.
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