“We shall soon get rid of him, I think,” he went on as if he had not been reading from the stable-wall.  “There is no room here for two households.  And Anne is accustomed to plenty of space.”

That was the name of the girl with whom Apollonius had been obliged to dance at the dull ball and see home afterward.  Since then she had often been at the house on pretexts which her crimson cheek branded as lies.  Her father too, a much-respected citizen, had sought Apollonius’ acquaintance, and Fritz Nettenmair had furthered the matter in every way he could.

“Anne?” cried his wife as if shocked.

“It’s good that she can’t lie,” thought Fritz Nettenmair with relief.  But it occurred to him that her inability to disguise her feelings would also promote his brother’s evil plan.  He had sought to make her jealous as a last resort.  That had been foolish of him, and he already regretted it.  She could not pretend; and even if he were still the dreamer of old, her excitement could not but betray to him what was going on in her breast, could not but betray it to herself.  And then—­once more he had reached the point to which every conclusion led him; he saw her awakening to an understanding of herself.  “And then”—­he forced the words out so that every syllable tore itself on his teeth—­“and then—­she’ll learn to know what it means!”

His brother expected him in the living-room.  “Of course, now that he knows I saw him, he must make some excuse for having passed by here when he thought she was alone.”  Thus thought Fritz, and followed his brother.

Apollonius was really waiting for him in the living-room.  He wanted to see his brother in order to warn him against the evil-looking workman.  He had heard much that was suspicious about him, and knew that his brother trusted him implicitly.  “And so you order me to send him away?” asked Fritz; and this time he could not help allowing his spite to gleam through his disguise.  From the tone in which he spoke Apollonius could not fail to read his real feeling.  It was:  “So you want to force your way even into the shed too, and drive me out of it.  Try it, if you dare!”

Apollonius looked into his brother’s eyes with unconcealed pain.  He brushed the lapel of his brother’s coat as if he would wipe away whatever clouded the relations between them, and said:  “Have I done anything to hurt you?”

“Me?” laughed his brother.  His laughter was intended to mean:  “I’m sure I don’t know what!” But it really meant:  “Do you ever do anything else, do you ever want to do anything else, but just what you know will hurt me?”

“For a long time I have wanted to say something to you,” went on Apollonius, “I will tomorrow; you are not in the right humor today.  You had to know what I have told you about the workman, and it wasn’t meant as you have taken it.”

“Of course!  Of course!” laughed Fritz.  “I’m convinced that it wasn’t so meant.”