When the song died away, Thomas rose.
“Au revoir,” said Anne, and her hand, like a little bird snuggling up in its nest, took refuge in his strong, warm grip. They remained like that for an instant. Then Anne was again alone. She ran back to the piano.
Even now she was still singing for Thomas. She sent her voice after him, to follow him down the stairs, to attend him part of the way. Perhaps he would hear it and turn back.
She drew aside the muslin curtains of the window. Lamps were already burning in the streets. Someone on the other side. Anne leant eagerly forward.
It was Otto Füger.
For a short time the younger Füger remained standing there, and turned his head in the direction whither Thomas Illey had gone.
From the office window a beam of light stretched to the street. In what had once been the study of Ulwing the builder the green-shaded lamps were lit up.
This evening John Hubert remained exceptionally long at his writing desk. He sat there in a state of collapse and his colourless skin formed two empty folds under his chin. His hand lay inert on a bundle of papers which had been presented to him for signature.
He rose heavily. He was looking for the second time through the door which led to the adjoining office. Once Augustus Füger used to work there, but, since an attack of apoplexy had paralysed the little book-keeper’s right arm, his son Otto occupied his place.
“Where can he be?” mused John Hubert, looking through the door into the empty office.