There had been a locket, but that was now worn by her highness.
CHAPTER XI
THE SOCIALISTS
Hermann Breunner lived in the granite lodge, just within the eastern
gates of the royal gardens. He was a widower and shared the ample lodge
with the undergardeners and their families. He lived with them, but
signally apart. They gave him as much respect as if he had been the duke
himself. He was a lonely, taciturn man, deeply concerned with his work,
and a botanical student of no mean order. No comrade helped him pass
away an evening in the chimney-corner, pipe in hand and good cheer in
the mug. This isolation was not accidental, it was Hermann's own
selection. He was a man of brooding moods, and there was no laughter in
his withered heart, though the false sound of it crossed his lips at
infrequent intervals.
He adjusted his heavy spectacles and held the note slantingly toward
the candle. A note or a letter was a singular event in Hermann's life.
Not that he looked forward with eagerness to receive them, but that
there was no one existing who cared enough about him to write. This note
left by the porter of the Grand Hotel moved him with surprise. It
requested that he present himself at eight o'clock at the office of the
hotel and ask to be directed to the room of Hans Grumbach.
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