“There is no sign of old age about him!” thought the little book-keeper, and waited to be addressed.
“Mr. Münster lost three hundred thousand Rhenish guldens. He could not stand that.”
Christopher Ulwing nodded. Meanwhile he calculated, cool and unmoved.
“I must see the books and balance sheet of Münster’s firm.” While he spoke, he reflected that he was now rich enough to have a heart. A heart is a great burden and hampers a man in his movements. As long as he was rising, he had had to set it aside. That was over. He had reached the summit.
“I will help Martin George Münster,” he said quietly, “I will put him on his legs again, but so that in future he shall stand by me, not against me.”
Füger, moved, blinked several times in quick succession under his spectacles, as if applauding his master with his eyelids.
This settled business for Christopher Ulwing. He snuffed the candle. Turning to his son:
“Have you been to the Town Hall?”
John Hubert felt his father’s voice as if it had gripped him by the shoulder and shaken him.
“Are you not tired, sir?” As a last defence this question rose to his lips. It might free him and leave the matter till to-morrow. But his father did not even deem it deserving of an answer.