“You know where?” cried Grey, delightedly; “you can find it?”
“I know it well,” answered the youth; “at the next farm I was born, Herr Arndt.”
“Then we will go there, by all means.”
And they set off walking rapidly through the narrow side streets of the old town to the bridge of Charlemagne, and thence across the river, and on through the wider avenue of the new city out into the silent lanes of the sweet-scented suburbs.
Both were busy with their thoughts and neither was inclined to conversation. After twenty minutes’ trudging, however, Grey asked:
“Do you suppose that fellow on the landing will die, Johann?”
“That fellow?” repeated the valet, “which, Herr Arndt? Do you mean Lutz?”
“Lutz!” exclaimed Grey, surprisedly, “was Lutz there?”
“Of a certainty, Herr Arndt. Did you not see his face? It was Lutz who lay outside our door.”