Ida came in, and began to get her own breakfast. She looked about the table.
"Have you the bread-knife, Julie?" she asked. "It was certainly here."
The invalid answered sullenly: "I?--No."
"Didn't you see it lying here, Julie?" Ida asked again. "Just here on the bread?"
"No," replied the invalid, "It wasn't there. I should have seen it if it had been. Perhaps you took it with you to the orderly-room by mistake."
"Perhaps I did," said Ida; and in the afternoon she asked her brother-in-law: "Otto, can you tell me whether I left the bread-knife lying in the orderly-room this morning?"
The sergeant-major answered: "Perhaps so. I'll see." After which nothing more was said about the missing knife.
Julie Heppner felt strangely strong and well as she held the formidable weapon in her hand. Now at last the hour had come in which she would be revenged for years of suffering, and for the accumulated disgrace of her married life. And she regarded her husband and sister with triumphant glances, as two victims who must fall under her hand without chance of escape.
There was so much to pack up and arrange during the evening that no one thought of giving the invalid her morphia.
"Otto, will you give me the medicine?" she requested at last. "I can prepare it for myself."