"Where is Olga?" he faltered, and fixed his gaze on the door as if he might see her enter there any moment.
"Olga?" said Mrs. Hellinger, shrugging her shoulders. "My goodness, she probably will be here shortly. Are you in such a hurry?"
"God be praised!" cried he, folding his hands. "Then she has been down already?"
"No--not so," remarked Mrs. Hellinger, "her ladyship thinks well to sleep somewhat long this morning."
"For God's sake," he cried, "has no one looked after her? Does no one know anything of her?"
"Doctor, what ails you?" cried old Hellinger, who was now beginning to be alarmed.
The physician may at this moment have recollected the request with which Olga's letter of farewell had closed. He felt that in this way his desire to comply with her request would, from the very first, become impossible, and made a last wretched attempt to preserve the secret.
"What ails me?" he faltered, with a miserable laugh. "Nothing ails me!--What should ail me? Confound it all!" And then, casting aside all dissimulation, he cried out: "My God! my God! Thou hast permitted this terrible thing! Thou hast withdrawn Thy hand from her." And he was about to sink down weeping, but he once more gathered up all the energy still remaining in his rickety old body, raised himself bolt upright, and--"Come to Olga," he said, "and do not be terrified--however--you may--find her."
Old Hellinger grew pale, and his wife commenced to scream and sob; she clung to the doctor's arm, and wished to know what had happened; but he spoke no further word.
So they all three climbed up the stairs leading to Olga's gable-room, and in the entrance-hall the servants collected and stared after them with great, inquisitive eyes.