First he went to the ober-burgomaster, President Kircheisen; to the man whom he had saved from death, who had clung to him, and, when he had found his speech again, had vowed with tears that he would be forever grateful to him, and would bless the arrival of the hour in which he could prove it to him by deeds.

This hour had now arrived, but Herr von Kircheisen did not bless it; on the contrary, he cursed it.  He was standing at the window of his ground floor when Gotzkowsky passed by.  Their eyes met.  Gotzkowsky’s were clear and penetrating; Kircheisen’s were cast down, as he stepped back from the window.  He only had time to tell the servants that he was not at home for any one, whoever it might be, when the bell rang, and Gotzkowsky inquired for Herr von Kircheisen.

“Not at home, sir.”

“Not at home! but I saw him just this moment standing at the window.”

“It must have been a mistake, sir.  The president has just gone to the Council-chamber.”

“Very well.  I will go to the town-hall,” said Gotzkowsky, as he left the house.

Passing by the window he looked in again.  This time, however, Kircheisen was not standing before the sashes, but at the side, ensconced behind the curtain, he was spying Gotzkowsky through the window.  As he saw him passing by, pale of countenance, but erect and unbent, he felt involuntarily a feeling of remorse, and his conscience warned him of his unpaid debt toward the only man who came to his rescue.  But he would not listen to his conscience, and with a dark frown he threw back his head with contempt.

“He is a bankrupt—­I have nothing to do with him!” So saying, he retired to his study, and in obedience to a natural instinct, he opened his strong box, and refreshed himself with a look at the thousands which he had earned from Gotzkowsky as “detective and informer.”  And now his conscience no longer reproached him; the sight of the shining money lulled it into a gentle slumber.

In the meanwhile Gotzkowsky continued his toilsome and humiliating journey.  He met men who formerly bent humbly to the earth before him, yet who scarcely greeted him now.  Others, again, as they passed him, whispered, with a malicious smile, “Bankrupt!” As he came to the corner of a street, he met the valiant editor of the Vossian Gazette, who was coming round from the other side.  As they met, he jostled Gotzkowsky rather roughly, yet Mr. Kretschmer did not think it worth while to excuse himself, but pulling his hat over his face he walked on with a dark and scornful look.  As Gotzkowsky passed the houses, he could hear the windows rattle, and he knew that it was his former good friends, who were drawing back when they saw him coming, and who, after he had passed, opened the windows again to look after him, to laugh at and mock him.  It was an intellectual running of the gantlet, and Gotzkowsky’s heart bled from the blows, and his feet were tired to death.  What had he then done to burden himself with the cruelty and contumely of the world?  Had he not been benevolent and kind, full of pity and humanity, obliging to every one?  Had he not always shown himself ready to serve every one, and never requested nor desired services in return?  Therein lay his fault and his crime.