The problem faced him in the dark, like an unsolved equation, staring out black and white before his eyes, or like an unfinished game of chess when one goes to bed after five or six hours’ play.  Something he must decide, because it was his nature to decide always, before he left a subject, on some course of thought.  Meanwhile he had been so little disturbed by the whole business that, in spite of his uncle’s death, and a million and a half of money, he was hungry and thirsty.  So he struck a match and lit his study-lamp, and found his coat and hat and stick.  Then he paused.  He did not want to meet Dr. Wiener and Dr. Wurst that evening; he would fetch himself something to eat and drink, and be quiet.  So he slung a heavy stone jug on his arm, and, turning his lamp down to save the oil, trudged down the stairs and out into the street.  He made for the little inn at the corner, and while the fat old landlord filled his jug with the best Markgraefler, he himself picked out a couple of smoked sausages from the great pile on the counter, and wrapping them up with half a dozen pretzels, transferred the package to his capacious pocket.  Then he took the jug from the innkeeper, and having paid half a gulden for the whole supply of eatables and wine, he departed to consume them in solitude.  It was his usual supper.  He had done the same thing for ten years, off and on, whenever he was not inclined for company.

“But I suppose it is incongruous,” he soliloquised, “that, being a millionaire, I should fetch my own supper.”  Once more he laughed aloud in the crowded street, for it was warm and the people were sitting in front of their houses, Simpelmayer the shoemaker, and Blech the tinman, and all the rest, each with his children and his pot of beer.  As the Doctor laughed, the little boys laughed too, and Blech remarked to Simpelmayer that the Herr Doctor must have won the great prize in the Hamburg lottery, for he had not heard him laugh like that in three years.

“Freilich,” returned the crooked shoemaker, “but he was used to laugh loud enough ten years ago.  I can remember when he first moved in there, and his corps-fellows locked him in his room for a jest, and stood mocking in the street.  And he climbed right down the woodwork and stepped on the signboard of the baker and jumped into the street, laughing all the while, though they were holding in their breath for fear he should break his neck.  Ja, he was a right student; but he is changed now—­the much reading, lieber Blech, the much reading.”  And the old fellow looked after Claudius as he disappeared into the dark doorway.

The Doctor mounted his three flights with even tread, and, turning up his light, proceeded leisurely to eat his twisted rolls and sausages.  When he had done that, he took the great stone jug in his hand, as if it had been a wine-glass, and set it to his lips and drank a long draught.