“I’d like to speak to Mr. Winkler,” she said eagerly.
“Mr. Winkler hasn’t come in yet,” answered the young man. “Is anything the matter? You look so white! Winkler will probably show up soon, he’s never very punctual. But it’s after eleven o’clock now and he’s never been as late as this before.”
“I don’t believe he’ll ever come again,” said the old woman, sinking down on a bench beside the door.
“Why, what do you mean?” asked the clerk. “Why shouldn’t he come again?”
“Is the head of the firm here?” asked Mrs. Klingmayer, wiping her forehead with her handkerchief. The clerk nodded and hurried away to tell his employer about the woman with the white face who came to ask for a man who, as she expressed it, “would never come there again.”
“I don’t think she’s quite right in the head,” he volunteered. The head of the firm told him to bring the woman into the inner office.
“Who are you, my good woman?” he asked kindly, softened by the evident agitation of this poorly though neatly dressed woman.
“I am Mr. Winkler’s landlady,” she answered.
“Ah! and he wants you to tell me that he’s sick? I’m afraid I can’t believe all that this gentleman says. I hope he’s not asking your help to lie to me. Are you sure that his illness is anything else but a case of being up late?”
“I don’t think that he’ll ever be sick again—I didn’t come with any message from him, sir; please read this, sir.” And she handed him the newspaper, showing him the notice. While the gentleman was reading she added: “Mr. Winkler didn’t come home last night either.”