He made a gesture toward the open door and then went up to the table and poured himself out a final stirrup-cup. He was wrapped from head to foot in a threadbare cloth coat, lined with shaggy fur, a fur-edged bonnet was on his head, and he carried a stout stick to which was attached a large bundle done up in a red cotton handkerchief. This now he slung over his shoulder.
"Klara, my girl," he called.
"Yes, father," came Klara's voice from the inner room.
"I didn't see the back-door key—the duplicate one I mean—hanging in its usual place."
"No, father, I know," she replied. "It's all right. I have it in my pocket. I'll hang it up on the peg in a minute."
"Right, girl," he said as he smacked his lips after the long draft of wine. "You are quite sure Leopold changed his mind about coming with me?"
"Quite sure, father."
"I wonder, then, he didn't wait to say good-bye to me."
"Perhaps he'll meet you at the station."
"Perhaps he will. Now then, gentlemen," added the old Jew as he once more turned to the two men.