Lato now stands in need of all the energy with which Providence has endowed him. All the excellence and nobility that have hitherto lain dormant in his soul arouse to life, now that they can but help him to die like a man. He cannot sever the golden fetters which he himself has forged; he will not drag through the mire what is most sacred to him; well, then----
Upon reaching his room he seated himself at his writing-table and wrote several letters,--the first to his father, requesting him to see that his debts were paid; one to Paula, one to his mother-in-law, and one to Harry. The letter to Harry ran thus:
"My dear good old Comrade,--
"When this note reaches you, you will be already freed from your fetters. I have never forgiven myself for refusing to perform the service you asked of me, and I have now retrieved my fault. I have written to Paula and to my mother-in-law, explaining your position to them, telling them the truth with brutal frankness, and leaving no course open to them save to release you. You are free. Farewell.
"Yours till death,
"Lato Treurenberg."
He tossed the pen aside.
The others were still dancing. The sound of the music came softly from the distance. He rested his head on his hands and pondered.
He has seen clearly that it must be. He had written the letters as the first irrevocable step. But how was it to be done?
He looked for his revolver. It might all be over in a moment. He caught up the little weapon with a kind of greed. Suddenly he recalled a friend who had shot himself, and whose body he had seen lying on the bed where the deed had been done: there were ugly stains of blood upon the pillow. His nature revolted from everything ugly and unclean. And then the scene, the uproar that would ensue upon discovering the corpse. If he could only avoid all that, could only cloak the ugly deed. Meanwhile, his faithful hound came to him from a corner of the room, and, as if suspicious that all was not right with its master, laid its head upon his knee.