Fritz Nettenmair was very little at home.  From early in the morning till late at night he sat in a public house from which the door in the church roof and the hanging seat on the tower could be seen.  He was more jovial than ever, and treated everybody in order to forget himself in their insincere admiration.

In the shed and in the slate quarry the disagreeable-looking workman took his place.  Until he came home late at night, the workman wandered back and forth in the passage leading from the living-room to the shed.  There had been some cases of theft in the neighborhood, and the workman stood watch; Fritz Nettenmair had become a very anxious man about his home.  Other people wondered at Fritz Nettenmair’s confidence in the workman.  Apollonius warned him repeatedly.  Of course!  He had good reason not to desire any watch kept, least of all by this workman who did not like him.  And that was just why Fritz Nettenmair trusted the workman and would not listen to warnings.  When Fritz Nettenmair said to his brother:  “I am so sorry,” he had just caught sight of the workman.  The latter’s grin showed him that the workman saw through him and knew what it was that he feared.  He ground his teeth; half an hour later he intrusted him with the watch and his place in the shed and the quarry.  It needed but few words.  The workman understood what Fritz told him that he must do; he also understood what Fritz did not tell him and what he must do nevertheless.  Fritz Nettenmair had as little confidence in the fellow’s honesty in the business as had Apollonius; but the man’s dishonesty there secured him his honesty where he needed it more.

The old gentleman in the blue coat had worse dreams than ever; he listened more anxiously than ever to every fleeting sound, heard more in it, and added ever greater loads to what lay on his breast.  But he did not ask.

It was late one evening.  From the tavern window Fritz Nettenmair had seen Apollonius leave his hanging seat and tie it to the scaffold.  According to his custom, he hurried out of the restaurant so as to get home before Apollonius.  He found his wife in the living-room, busy about her household work.  The workman came in and made his customary report.  Then he whispered something to his master and went.

Fritz Nettenmair sat down at the table with his wife.  He usually sat there until the sound of the workman’s shuffling tread in the hall told him that Apollonius had gone to bed.  Then he went back again to his tavern; he knew that the house was safe from thieves, the workman was on the watch.

The feeling that he had his wife in his hand and that she resigned herself to the situation with suffering had until now aided the wine to cast over him a faint reflection of the jovial condescension which formerly had shone like the sun from every button of his clothes.  Today the reflection was unusually faint—­perhaps because her eye had not sought the ground when it met his glance.  He put a few indifferent questions, and then said:  “You have been merry today.”  He wanted her to feel that he knew everything that went on in the house even when he was not there.  “You were singing.”