“What is the news, Father Stubbe?” cried Wilhelm, as he came in.

“No good news, Herr Doctor.  Wander the locksmith—­you know the man who rents the second floor of the house in our court—­has been turned out by the police.  It seems he’s a very dangerous customer; I must say I have never noticed it.  He was always very decent; the children were a bother, certainly—­always running about the court and getting between your feet.  Well, we all have our faults; and then, too, he didn’t pay his rent in October.”

Wilhelm, who was well acquainted with Father Stubbe’s flow of language, and did not greatly admire it, interrupted him at this point.

“Well, and what is the matter?”

“What’s the matter, Herr Doctor?  Why, the wife is there now with the five children, and there’s no earning anything, and yesterday she took away a cupboard to turn it into money somewhere—­not that she can have got much for it, it was all tumbling to pieces.  The rest of the furniture will take legs to itself soon, I dare say, for six mouths must be fed, and where is food to come from?  There will be no removal expenses anyhow, for there will soon be nothing but the bare walls.  There’s no question of paying the rent, and never will be, as far as I can see; so I thought I had better ask what was to be done with the poor things.”

“What can we do?”

“We could seize the bits of sticks they still have, though that would not cover the rent that is owing.  The best thing, perhaps, would be to tell Frau Wander just to take her things and clear out; then at least we could relet the rooms.”

“Frau Wander does not work?”

“How can she?—­five children, and the youngest still at the breast.”

“I will see to it myself, and let you know what is to be done.”

“Very good, Herr Doctor,” said Stubbe, much relieved.  He had a kind heart and it was only his strict sense of duty that led him to mention the case of the Wanders, and particularly the unpermissible selling of the furniture, to the owner of the house.

Stubbe had barely reached home before Wilhelm appeared in the Kochstrasse.  His house lay between the Charlotten and Markgrafenstrasse, and was an old and unpretentious structure, looking, among the stately houses of a later period which surrounded it on all sides, like a poor relation at a rich and distinguished family gathering.  During the “milliard years,” building speculators had offered him considerable sums for the ground, but he was not to be prevailed upon to sell the house left him by his father.  It was only seven windows wide, and had consisted originally of one story only, but a low second story had been added, recognizable instantly as a piece of patchwork.  A great key hanging over the entrance announced the fact that there was a locksmith’s workshop inside.  The courtyard was very low and narrow, and roughly paved with cobblestones, between which the grass sprouted luxuriantly.  At the further end of this court stood the “Hinterhaus,” likewise two-storied, on the ground floor of which the locksmith carried on his resounding trade.