He was to receive the support he longed for.  Soon after his arrival in Hamburg he had written to Schrotter, telling him of his change of residence, and expressing, at the same time, his intense desire to see him again after their long separation, also, if it would not be asking too much, to propose that he, Schrotter, should make a short journey, say to Wittenberg, where they might meet and spend a few days together, if it were possible for Schrotter to get away from Berlin for a short time.

Schrotter answered by return of post.  He was delighted to find that Wilhelm was so near, and promised to take advantage of the first fine days of April to make his little excursion to Hamburg.  He would arrange it so that he could at least spend a week with Wilhelm.  It was not impossible that he might bring Bhani with him.

Only a fortnight had passed since Wilhelm received this letter, when, on his return one afternoon from the Uhlenhorst, the hotel porter informed him that a gentleman had arrived from Berlin, and had asked for him; that he was expecting him in his room, the number of which he mentioned.  With joyful foreboding Wilhelm hurried upstairs so fast that Fido could not follow, and knocked at the door.  A familiar voice answered.  “Come in!” and the next moment he was in Schrotter’s arms.

The first greetings over, Schrotter gave his young friend a long and penetrating look from under the half-closed lids, and remarked

“I suppose you are surprised that I did not wait till April, but dropped down upon you unawares like this?”

“I am too delighted to be surprised,” answered Wilhelm, and pressed Schrotter’s large, strong hand.

He had scarcely altered at all in the year and a quarter, and with his herculean shoulders and powerful head, his fair hair, blushed into a great tuft above his forehead, only just beginning to turn gray, he was still the very type and picture of ripe manhood and strength.

“But I had a reason for changing my original plan,” Schrotter went on.  “Unwittingly I have committed a breach of good manners against you, for which I must personally ask you to forgive me.”  He drew a letter out of his breast-pocket and handed it to Wilhelm.  “This letter came yesterday.  Seeing the address, I took it for granted that it was for me, and so I read it, and discovered then that it was for you.”

Wilhelm turned pale as Schrotter handed him the letter.  It bore the Paris postmark, and Schrotter’s name and address in a large, clumsy hand.  Nothing on the outside to betray that it was for Wilhelm.  Auguste—­Wilhelm divined at once that he was the writer of the letter—­had not thought of putting it in a second envelope directed to Wilhelm, or of adding his name to the original address.

Wilhelm’s hand shook as he unfolded the letter, and a veil fell before his eyes.  For one moment he had the idea to put the letter in his pocket, and say he would read it later on, for it was torture to him that Schrotter should be a witness of the emotion he knew he must feel on reading it.  But of what use was it to dissemble?  Schrotter would have to know.  He glanced over Auguste’s stiff characters.