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"Our appointment was made by telephone, and I think therefore I should ask you to show me Mr. Dulkinghorn's letter of introduction before I go any further, so that I may feel quite sure in my mind that I am dealing with one in whom I know Mr. Dulkinghorn to have every confidence ..." Mr, Schulz's yellow face went a shade yellower.
That did not keep him from slapping his thigh a moment later and crying out upon the misfortune of having had to go away he who never went away just when the Herr Kapellmeister was coming. Schulz's telegram had only reached him that morning an hour after the train went; he was asleep when it arrived and they had not thought it worth while to wake him.
They had become the best friends in the world when unhappily the old man chanced to express his admiration for Brahms. Christophe was at once coldly angry; he dropped Schulz's arm and said harshly that anyone who loved Brahms could not be his friend. That threw cold water on their happiness. Schulz was too timid to argue, too honest to lie, and murmured and tried to explain.
Schulz laughed to himself in the street for the joy he had and was going to give. Night was falling, and Kunz lived in a little village half an hour away from the town. But the sky was clear; it was a soft April evening. The nightingales were singing. Old Schulz's heart was overflowing with happiness. He breathed without difficulty, he walked like a boy.
Then he gave the precious paper back to Schulz, who was laughing happily, looked at him and wagged his head and said: "Ah! well ... Ah! well!..." After a moment's thought and after drawing in and expelling a cloud of tobacco smoke he put his hand on Schulz's knee and said: "We must tell Pottpetschmidt." "I was going to him," said Schulz. "I will go with you," said Kunz.
They went into the woods. Schulz recited verses of Goethe and Moerike. Christophe loved poetry, but he could not remember any, and while he listened he stepped into a vague dream in which music replaced the words and made him forget them. He admired Schulz's memory.
She came again ten minutes later, then once again, ten minutes after that; this time she was beside herself and boiling with rage while she tried to look unperturbed; she stood firmly in, the middle of the room and in spite of Schulz's desperate gestures she asked in a brazen voice: "Do the gentlemen prefer to eat their dinner cold or burned? It does not matter to me. I only await your orders."
I shall be gone to-night," said Christophe. A shadow passed over Schulz's beaming face. "What! Gone!" he said in a trembling voice. "But you are not going." "Oh, yes," said Christophe gaily. "I must catch the train to-night." Schulz was in despair. He had counted on Christophe spending the night, perhaps several nights, in his house. He murmured: "No, no. You can't go!..."
They had nothing more to say to each other, as usual when good-byes are too long drawn out, but Schulz's eyes went on speaking, they never left Christophe's face until the train went. The carriage disappeared round a curve. Schulz was left alone. He went back by the muddy path; he dragged along; suddenly he felt all his weariness, the cold, the melancholy of the rainy day.
About twenty yards from Mr. Schulz's house a narrow alley ran off. As Mary turned to regain the little footbridge across the canal to return to the noisy street which would take her back to the hotel, she caught sight of a man disappearing down this alley. She only had a glimpse of him, but it was sufficient to startle her considerably.
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