Haase’s voice sounded from the inner room.

“Hedwig!” he called.

The woman hastily dried her eyes and disappeared through the door.

The coast was clear, if I wanted to escape, but where could I go, without a paper or passport, a hunted man?

The news of Kore’s arrest and execution haunted me.  Of course, the man was in a most perilous trade, and had probably been playing the game for years.  But suppose they had tracked me to the house in the street called In den Zelten.

I crossed the room and opened the door to the street.  I had never set foot outside since I had come, and, hopeless as it would be for me to attempt to escape, I thought I might reconnoitre the surroundings of the beer-cellar for the event of flight.

I lightly ran up the stairs to the street and nearly cannoned into a man who was lounging in the entrance.  We both apologized, but he stared at me hard before he strolled on.  Then I saw another man sauntering along on the opposite side of the street.  Further away, at the corner, two men were loitering.

Every one of them had his eyes fixed on the cellar entrance at which I was standing.

I knew they could not see my face, for the street was but dimly lit, and behind me was the dark background of the cellar stairway.  I took a grip on my nerves and very deliberately lit a cigarette and smoked it, as if I had come up from below to get a breath of fresh air.  I waited a little while and then went down.

I was scarcely back in the cellar when Haase appeared from the inner room, followed by the woman.  He carried himself erect, and his eyes were shining.  I didn’t like the man, but I must say he looked game.  In his hand he carried my papers.

“Here you are, my lad,” he said in quite a friendly tone, “put ’em in your pocket—­you may want ’em to-night.”

I glanced at the papers before I followed his advice.

He noted my action and laughed.

“They have told you about Johann,” he said.  “Never fear, Julius, you and I are good friends.”

The papers were those of Julius Zimmermann all right.

We were having supper at one of the tables in the front room—­there were only a couple of customers, as it was so early—­when a man, a regular visitor of ours, came down the stairs hurriedly.  He went straight over to Haase and spoke into his ear.

“Mind yourself, Haase,” I heard him say.  “Do you know who had Kore arrested and shot?  It was Clubfoot.  There is more in this than we know.  Mind yourself and get out!  In an hour or so it may be too late.”

Then he scurried away, leaving me dazed.

“By God!” said the landlord, bringing a great fist down on the table so that the glasses rang, “they won’t touch me.  Not the devil himself will make me leave this house before they come, if coming they are!”