A long plain hall, of grey stone, the seams defined with black cement; all the windows high up, small and grated; only the one door, never locked.  Two rows of slate beds, three of which only were occupied; two men and a boy, nude save a waistcloth; over their heads—­sluggishly swayed by the air the new-comer had carelessly admitted—­their clothes were hung like shapeless shadows.  They had been dredged up in the Isar’s mud, found at a corner, dragged from under a cartwheel.  No one identifying them, they were deposited here; their fate? dissection for the benefit of science, and interment of the detached portions in the pauper’s hell.

Which had rung the bell?

Claudius investigated the three:  the boy had been crushed by the sludge-basket of the steam-dredge; not a spark of life was left there, his companion was green and horrible; he, too, had passed the bourne.

But on the other row, alone, a robust man with disfigured face, and red whiskers, looked like a fresh cut alabaster statue.  Cold had blanched him; but a faint steam arose from his armpits, in the sepulchral light of a green-shaded gas-jet.  There heat remained to prove that the great furnace in the frame had not ceased to be fed.

The student bent over him to feel the heart, when, as promptly, he sprang back.  Spite of the maltreated face, he recognized his combatant in the duel with canes; it was Major Von Sendlingen, who had been flung on the slab in the public dead-house.

Had Baboushka commanded his death to prevent her complicity in the assault on Daniels and his daughter being published, and had she suggested the stripping which caused the police to confound the noble officer with the victim of the “pickers-up” of drunkards?

But the major shivered in the blast from the door left open, and a brief flush ran over the icy skin.

If his enemy did not extend relief to him immediately, he would never recover strength to ring the death-bell to which ran the wires appended to his fingers and toes.

With three or four rapid strokes and twistings, Claudius broke them.  He looked round; this waif of the gutter had no clothes, but a torn and shapeless garment dangled over his head; it was the old cloak of the student.  The pockets had been torn bodily away to save time; it was the mere integument of the garment.

But it sufficed to retain the scanty heat lingering in the unfortunate man, when wrapped about him.  With a surprising spell of strength, Claudius lifted him upon his breast when so enveloped, and crossed the grounds for the third time.

The warder had returned but he had left the gate open to close its sliding grate by mechanism worked within his little house.  To his amazed eyes, Claudius presented himself with the burden.

“Help him! revive him! he is living!” he said.  “I will go fetch the police surgeon! it is my officer—­Major von Sendlingen!”