"He throws everything into the paper-basket, you see," she said in an explanatory tone of voice.
She had certainly never sought there. Käte looked on with staring eyes, whilst the woman turned over every scrap of paper with practised ringers. All at once she cried out: "There, we've got it." And she placed some bits of paper triumphantly on the table. "Here's a letter from her. Do you see? I know the writing. Now we'll see."
Laying their heads together the two women tried to piece together the separate bits of the letter that had been torn up. But they were not successful, too much was wanting, they could only put a very few sentences together:
"not come any more--
"angry with me--
"soon come to you some evening--
"always your"
But wait, here was the signature. That had not been torn, here it stood large and connected at the bottom of the sheet of paper:
"always your"
"FRIDA LÄMKE."
"Frida Lämke?" Käte gave a loud cry of surprise. Frida Lämke--no, she had never thought that--or were there perhaps two of the same name? That fair-haired child that used to play in the garden in former years? Why yes, yes, she had always had bold eyes.
"You know her, I suppose?" asked the landlady, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Käte did not answer. She stared at the carpet in deep thought. Was this worse--or was it not so bad? Could it not still be hindered now that she was on the track, or was everything lost? She did not know; her head was no longer clear enough for her to consider the matter from a sensible point of view, she could not even think any more. She only had the feeling that she must go to the Lämkes. Only go there, go there as quickly as possible. Jumping up she said hastily: "That's all right, quite all right--thanks. Oh, it's all right." And hastening past the disconcerted woman she hurried to the door and down the stairs. Somebody happened to unlock the door from outside at that moment; thus she got out.