"Hear me!" he commanded furiously. "Hear me! You shall hear me!"
At each frenzied repetition of the command, the Dead Man hurled his arms aloft and brought down his clenched fist with all his power upon the desk in mighty blows of utterly soundless violence.
Impotently he cried aloud:
"Oh, will no one hear me? Has my journey been all in vain? Has it been useless?—worse than useless?"
The Dead Man looked upward, in an anguish of desperation. He seemed to be entreating the Unseen in his clamour of wild, hopeless appeal.
"Has it all been for nothing?" he wailed. "Must we forever stand or fall by the mistakes we make in this world? Is there no second chance?"
Frederik shook his head angrily as though to banish clinging unwelcome thoughts from his brain, got up and crossed to the sideboard, where he poured himself a double drink of liquor and swigged it down with feverish eagerness.
As he left the desk, Marta entered from the kitchen with the light supper he had ordered:—coffee, with sugar and cream, and a plate of little cakes. She went to the desk and began clearing a space among the scattered papers for the supper tray. As her free hand moved among the papers, the Dead Man was at her elbow.
"Marta!" he whispered, as though fearing his words might reach Frederik. "Look! Look!"
He pointed excitedly to the torn letter and the photograph that lay face downward under her hand. And she picked up both letter and picture, to make room for the tray.