“There it is again,” laughingly said Borgert. “Women are best for all underhanded work.”
“And by which train shall we leave?”
“You will go by the afternoon train, for we will not leave together; that would attract too much attention. I shall follow you on the evening train. I think it will be best to meet in Frankfort. We will meet in the waiting-room of the main station, and there we can talk over everything in quiet. I shall take a three days’ leave, so that they will not follow me at once.”
“Then we are agreed so far. I will come down here to-morrow forenoon, as soon as my husband has left, and then we can talk this matter over a little more in detail. Just now I’ll have to leave you.”
Frau Leimann turned towards the door. When she sent a parting nod from the threshold, she seemed once more enticing in his eyes. The heated face was animated, and the glowing eyes radiated life. Truly, she was charming. Borgert lost himself in pleasant speculations about the honeyed existence which they two were to lead hereafter, once that inconvenient husband was out of the way, and all scruples which still clung to them, as the last vestiges of respectability, had been thrown overboard.
Borgert had regained all his good humor; he felt almost buoyant, and as if he could dare undertake anything. There was another consideration with him. His flight, his desertion, his leaving his creditors unsatisfied, and a record of somewhat crooked financial transactions behind him,—all that would now be regarded by people in a wholly different light. The romantic element would predominate in the minds of all the gossips. They would say that these two had fled, because of an overmastering passion,—to become united, when unfortunate circumstances did not permit them to belong to each other in their present plight. There would, of course, be enough scandal even now, but the whole story was going to be lifted by this elopement into a higher sphere; it would take on, so to speak, an appearance vastly more interesting, less vulgar, nay, even aristocratic and excusable,—an entirely different matter from the bald statement that he, Borgert, had deserted for no other reason except a lot of bad debts and unclean financial machinations.
For a moment, it is true, his better conscience spoke, reproaching him with the intention of adding a new crime to his list of old ones; but this warning resounded so weakly within him that it had not the slightest effect. The principal thing, after all, was that he must not let such an advantage escape him simply to save the feelings of others. Such minor considerations could not be allowed to interfere with his plans.
Borgert therefore briskly walked to town, and at the post-office, where the telegraph bureau was located, he wired to a large second-hand dealer in the neighboring city, telling him to pay him a visit the following morning.
Then he returned home and stepped up to Leimann’s.
He found his friend busy packing.