When they got up from the table and went into the adjoining room, where the bandage had been searched for so zealously, albeit in vain, Annie was again laid upon the sofa.  Johanna came and sat down beside her, while Innstetten began to put back into the sewing table the countless things that still lay in gay confusion upon the window sill.  Now and then he was at a loss to know what to do and was obliged to ask.

“Where do these letters belong, Johanna?”

“Clear at the bottom,” said she, “here in this drawer.”

During the question and answer Innstetten examined more closely than before the little package tied up with a red cord.  It seemed to consist of a number of notes, rather than letters.  Bending it between his thumb and forefinger, like a pack of cards, he slowly let the edges slip off one at a time, and a few lines, in reality only disconnected words, darted past his eyes.  It was impossible to distinguish them clearly, yet it seemed to him as though he had somewhere seen the handwriting before.  Should he look into the matter?

“Johanna, you might bring us the coffee.  Annie will also take half a cup.  The doctor has not forbidden it, and what is not forbidden is allowed.”

As he said this he untied the red cord, and while Johanna was going to the kitchen he quickly ran over the whole contents of the package.  Only two or three letters were addressed to Mrs. District Councillor von Innstetten.  He now recognized the handwriting; it was that of the Major.  Innstetten had known nothing about a correspondence between Crampas and Effi.  His brain began to grow dizzy.  He put the package in his pocket and returned to his room.  A few moments later Johanna rapped softly on his door to let him know that the coffee was served.  He answered, but that was all.  Otherwise the silence was complete.  Not until a quarter of an hour later was he heard walking to and fro on the rug.  “I wonder what ails papa?” said Johanna to Annie.  “The doctor said it was nothing, didn’t he?”

The walking to and fro in the adjoining room showed no signs of ending, but Innstetten finally came out and said:  “Johanna, keep an eye on Annie and make her remain quiet on the sofa.  I am going out to walk for an hour or two.”  Then he gazed fixedly at the child and left the room.

“Did you notice, Johanna, how papa looked?”

“Yes, Annie.  He must have had a great vexation.  He was all pale.  I never saw him like that.”

Hours passed.  The sun was already down and only a red glow was visible above the roofs across the street, when Innstetten came back.  He took Annie’s hand and asked her how she was.  Then he ordered Johanna to bring the lamp into his room.  The lamp came.  In its green shade were half-transparent ovals with photographs, various pictures of his wife that had been made in Kessin for the other members of the cast when they played Wichert’s A Step out of the Way.  Innstetten turned the shade slowly from left to right and studied each individual picture.  Then he gave that up and, as the air was so sultry, opened the balcony door and finally took up the package of letters again.  He seemed to have picked out a few and laid them on top the first time he looked them over.  These he now read once more in a half audible voice: