"Now, who is Hans Grumbach? I never knew or heard of a man of that
name."
Nevertheless, he decided to go. Certainly this man Grumbach did not urge
him without some definite purpose. He laid down his pipe, reached for
his hat and coat--for in the lodge he generally went about in his
shirt-sleeves--and went over to the hotel. The concierge, who knew
Hermann, conducted him to room ten on the entresole. Hermann knocked. A
voice bade him enter. Ah, it was the German-American, whose papers had
puzzled his excellency.
"You wished to see me, Herr Grumbach?"
"Yes," said Grumbach, offering a chair.
Hermann accepted the courtesy with dignity. His host drew up another
chair to the opposite side of the reading-table. The light overhead put
both faces in a semishadow.
"You are Hermann Breunner," began Grumbach.
"Yes."
"You once had a brother named Hans."
Hermann grew rigid in his chair. "I have no brother," he replied, his
voice dull and empty.
"Perhaps not now," continued Grumbach, "but you did have."
Hermann's head drooped. "My God, yes, I did have a brother; but he was a
scoundrel."
Grumbach lighted a cigar. He did not offer one to Hermann, who would
have refused it.
"Perhaps he was a scoundrel. He is--dead!" softly.
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