He adjusted his heavy spectacles and held the note slantingly toward the candle.  A note or a letter was a singular event in Hermann’s life.  Not that he looked forward with eagerness to receive them, but that there was no one existing who cared enough about him to write.  This note left by the porter of the Grand Hotel moved him with surprise.  It requested that he present himself at eight o’clock at the office of the hotel and ask to be directed to the room of Hans Grumbach.

“Now, who is Hans Grumbach?  I never knew or heard of a man of that name.”

Nevertheless, he decided to go.  Certainly this man Grumbach did not urge him without some definite purpose.  He laid down his pipe, reached for his hat and coat—­for in the lodge he generally went about in his shirt-sleeves—­and went over to the hotel.  The concierge, who knew Hermann, conducted him to room ten on the entresole.  Hermann knocked.  A voice bade him enter.  Ah, it was the German-American, whose papers had puzzled his excellency.

“You wished to see me, Herr Grumbach?”

“Yes,” said Grumbach, offering a chair.

Hermann accepted the courtesy with dignity.  His host drew up another chair to the opposite side of the reading-table.  The light overhead put both faces in a semishadow.

“You are Hermann Breunner,” began Grumbach.

“Yes.”

“You once had a brother named Hans.”

Hermann grew rigid in his chair.  “I have no brother,” he replied, his voice dull and empty.

“Perhaps not now,” continued Grumbach, “but you did have.”

Hermann’s head drooped.  “My God, yes, I did have a brother; but he was a scoundrel.”

Grumbach lighted a cigar.  He did not offer one to Hermann, who would have refused it.

“Perhaps he was a scoundrel.  He is—­dead!” softly.

“God’s will be done!” But Hermann’s face turned lighter.

“As a boy he loved you.”

“And did I not love him?” said Hermann fiercely.  “Did I not worship that boy, who was to me more like a son than a brother?  Had not all the brothers and sisters died but he?  But you—­who are you to recall these things?”

“I knew your brother; I knew him well.  He was not a scoundrel; only weak.  He went to America and became successful in business.  He fought with the North in the war.  He was not a coward; he did his fighting bravely and honorably.”

“Oh, no; Hans could never, have been a coward; even his villainy required courage.  But go on.”

“He died facing the enemy, and his last words were of you.  He begged your forgiveness; he implored that you forget that black moment.  He was young, he said; and they offered him a thousand crowns.  In a moment of despair he fell.”

“Despair?  Did he confess to you the crime he committed?”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you to whom he sold his honor?”

“That he never knew.  A Gipsy from the hills came to him, so he said.