That is it. They do not know me. And then, it is late."
The drops of perspiration stood on his pale forehead as he began to walk
again. He glanced at his possessions and turned from the contemplation of
them in renewed despair. Many a time, before, he had sought among his very
few belongings for some object upon which a pawnbroker might advance five
marks, and he had sought in vain. The furniture of the room was not his,
and beyond the furniture the room contained little enough. He had parted
long ago with an old silver watch, of which the chain had even sooner
found its way to the lender's. A long-cherished ring had disappeared last
winter, by an odd coincidence, at the very time when Johann Schmidt's
oldest child was lying ill with diphtheria. As for clothing, he had
nothing to offer. The secrets of his outward appearance were known to him
alone, but they were of a nature to discourage the hope of raising money
on coat or trousers. A few well-thumbed volumes of Russian authors could
not be expected to find a brilliant sale in Munich at a moment's notice.
He looked about, and he saw that there was nothing, and he turned very
pale.
"And yet, before midnight, it must be paid," he said. Then his face
brightened again. "Before midnight--but they will be here before then, of
course. Perhaps I may borrow the money for a few hours."
But in order to do this, or to attempt it, he must go out. What if his
friends arrived at the moment when he was out of the house?
"No," he said, consulting his imaginary time-table, "there is no train
now, for a couple of hours, at least.
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