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Updated: May 23, 2025
A streak of sunshine had found its way into the room, lay across the carpet, and touched Sogrange's still, waxen features. Peter glanced half fearfully at his friend and visitor. He himself was no coward, no shrinker from the great issues. He, too, had dealt in life and death.
For three months he had done nothing but live the life of an ordinary man of fashion and wealth. His first task, for which, to tell the truth, he had been anxiously waiting, was here before him, and he found it little to his liking. Again, he read slowly to himself the last paragraph of Sogrange's.
The visits have to be returned. It is magnificent, this hospitality, but what can one do?" Peter looked at the pile of correspondence upon which Sogrange's inroad, indeed, seemed to have had but little effect. "One could engage a secretary, of course," he suggested, doubtfully. "But the visits! Our week's holiday is gone." "Not at all," Sogrange replied. "I have an idea." The telephone bell rang.
Then Sogrange's voice and the beat of his forefinger upon the table stiffened him into sudden alertness. They heard a motor car draw up outside. "Who can it be?" the Baroness exclaimed, setting her glass down abruptly. "It is, perhaps, our fourth guest who arrives," Sogrange remarked. They all three listened, Peter and Sogrange with their glasses still suspended in the air.
There was a brief silence. Outside, the early morning street noises were increasing in volume as the great army of workers, streaming towards the heart of the city from a hundred suburbs, passed on to their tasks. A streak of sunshine had found its way into the room, lay across the carpet and touched Sogrange's still, waxen features. Peter glanced half fearfully at his friend and visitor.
Sogrange's pencil continued its task, only he traced no more characters. Instead, he seemed to be sketching a face, which presently he tore carefully up into small pieces and destroyed. He did not even glance towards Peter, but Peter understood very well what had happened. He had been about to send him a message, but had found the Baroness watching. Peter was fully awake now.
Peter raised his glass, and looked into the eyes of the woman who was leaning so closely towards him that her soft breath fell upon his cheek. She whispered something in his ear. For a moment, perhaps, he was carried away, but for a moment only. Then Sogrange's voice and the beat of his forefinger upon the table stiffened him into sudden alertness. They heard a motor-car draw up outside.
A little exclamation broke from Sogrange's lips. The thirteenth name upon that list of dead was that of Bernadine, Count von Hern. "Bernadine!" Peter faltered. "Bernadine is dead!" "Killed by the strikers!" Sogrange echoed! "It is a just thing, this." The two men looked down at the paper and then up at one another. A strange silence seemed to have found its way into the room.
For three months he had done nothing but live the life of an ordinary man of fashion and wealth. His first task for which, to tell the truth, he had been anxiously waiting was here before him, and he found it little to his liking. Again he read slowly to himself the last paragraph of Sogrange's letter:
"My friend," he exclaimed, "they all have to be answered that collection there! The visits have to be returned. It is magnificent, this hospitality, but what can one do?" Peter looked at the pile of correspondence upon which Sogrange's inroad, indeed, seemed to have had but little effect. "One could engage a secretary, of course," he suggested, doubtfully. "But the visits!
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