At three, the office was shut up. The notary and everybody in the
notary's employment, with one exception, went to see the rifle-shooting.
Obenreizer had pleaded that he was not in spirits for a public festival.
Nobody knew what had become of him. It was believed that he had slipped
away for a solitary walk.
The house and offices had been closed but a few minutes, when the door of
a shining wardrobe in the notary's shining room opened, and Obenreizer
stopped out. He walked to a window, unclosed the shutters, satisfied
himself that he could escape unseen by way of the garden, turned back
into the room, and took his place in the notary's easy-chair. He was
locked up in the house, and there were five hours to wait before eight
o'clock came.
He wore his way through the five hours: sometimes reading the books and
newspapers that lay on the table: sometimes thinking: sometimes walking
to and fro. Sunset came on. He closed the window-shutters before he
kindled a light. The candle lighted, and the time drawing nearer and
nearer, he sat, watch in hand, with his eyes on the oaken door.
At eight, smoothly and softly and silently the door opened.
One after another, he read the names on the outer rows of boxes. No such
name as Vendale! He removed the outer row, and looked at the row behind.
These were older boxes, and shabbier boxes. The four first that he
examined, were inscribed with French and German names.
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