lobby of considerable extent intervened between the inner door of the
painter's room and the street entrance, so that Schalken occupied the
post of observation before the old man could possibly have reached the
street. He watched in vain, however. There was no other mode of exit.
Had the queer old man vanished, or was he lurking about the recesses of
the lobby for some sinister purpose? This last suggestion filled the
mind of Schalken with a vague uneasiness, which was so unaccountably
intense as to make him alike afraid to remain in the room alone, and
reluctant to pass through the lobby. However, with an effort which
appeared very disproportioned to the occasion, he summoned resolution to
leave the room, and, having locked the door and thrust the key in his
pocket, without looking to the right or left, he traversed the passage
which had so recently, perhaps still, contained the person of his
mysterious visitant, scarcely venturing to breathe till he had arrived
in the open street.

"Minheer Vanderhausen!" said Gerard Douw within himself, as the
appointed hour approached, "Minheer Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam! I never
heard of the man till yesterday. What can he want of me? A portrait,
perhaps, to be painted; or a poor relation to be apprenticed; or a
collection to be valued; or--pshaw! there's no one in Rotterdam to leave
me a legacy. Well, whatever the business may be, we shall soon know it
all."

It was now the close of day, and again every easel, except that of
Schalken, was deserted. Gerard Douw was pacing the apartment with the
restless step of impatient expectation, sometimes pausing to glance over
the work of one of his absent pupils, but more frequently placing
himself at the window, from whence he might observe the passengers who
threaded the obscure by-street in which his studio was placed.