"It is not likely that it will happen," grumbled Konski.
"Konski will leave me to-morrow," explained Bertram.
"Will, is it? No, I won't, but ..."
"All right!" said his master, "we must not bother the doctor with our private affairs. Good-bye, my friend! With your leave I will dine with you to-morrow."
The physician left; Bertram immediately again sat down at the writing-table, and resumed the work which this late visit had interrupted. It was a disputed election case, and he would have to report upon it to the House. There had been some irregularities, and it was in the interest of his own party that the election should be declared null and void; he had been examining the somewhat complicated data with all the greater conscientiousness and care. But now he lost the thread, and was turning over the voluminous page of the evidence, when, lo! a daintily-folded sheet of paper--a letter--fell out.
"Good heavens! how came this here?"
He seized upon it with eagerness, as a wandering beggar might seize upon a gold coin which he saw glittering among the dust on the road. The hot blood surged to the temples from the sick and sore heart; the hand that held the slight paper trembled violently.
"Now he would not be grumbling at my slow pulse!"
Yesterday morning he had received this letter, but had not succeeded in composing himself sufficiently to read more than a few lines. He thought that, perhaps, on his return from the Reichstag he might have been in a more settled frame of mind. Then he had not been able to find again the letter which had been laid aside, although he had searched for hours, first alone, then with Konski.
And now--after all those documents were pushed aside--he was again, as yesterday, staring hard at the page, and again, as yesterday, the different lines ran into each other; but he shook his head angrily, drew his hand over his eyes, and then read:--