He paced the floor restlessly, nervously, twisting his unlighted cigarette in his fingers until it crumbled, his mouth tight, his eyebrows drawn together. Then he seized his hat and overcoat and flung himself out of the door into the gathering winter storm.
For an hour he plunged through the snow, the chaos of the storm matching his mood. Almost exhausted, he turned back toward his home and entered. The room glowed warmly. In front of the inviting fire was the big arm-chair with its wide seat, comfortable cushions and high pulpit back. As he laid aside his greatcoat he stepped toward the chair, intending to bury himself in its depths and surrender to his mood. A shudder ran over him and he drew back, staring at the seat.
It was empty, his eyes assured him, but he could not rid himself of a feeling that it was occupied. He pressed his hands to his eyes and then flung them outward with the gesture of one distraught.
"I am going mad!" he thought.
He called loudly, harshly:
"Heinrich! Heinrich!"
His old servant, alarmed at the unwonted violence of his master's voice, hastened into the room. Karl flung aside his coat and Heinrich held for him his velvet dressing jacket. He slipped into it, shook himself, and lighted a cigarette. His hands shook with nervousness, and he held them out from him that he might look at them.
"Oh, what a terrible sight!" he groaned.
"Monsieur?" Heinrich said inquiringly.
"Has any one been here?" Karl asked.