In the night I woke up out of a deep sleep. I was dressed and lying transversely across the bed. I struck a light, feeling that I must try to remember something important that had happened. I knew nothing of the hours just passed. I turned on the light, and recollection came back gradually. I looked for the picture. It was not hanging on the wall, neither was it lying on the table. I thought confusedly that I must have burned it. Or was it a dream, that I had burned it in my hands and had eaten the ashes? A great inquietude convulsed me and drove me forth. I put on my hat, went out of the house and down the street, as if under coercion. I walked and walked through streets and squares as if blown along by a storm, I listened in front of the gloomy church of my friend, searched in obedience to a blind impulse, without knowing what I was looking for. I went through a suburb, where brothels stood. Here and there a light was still shining. Further on stood new buildings and brick heaps, covered in part with grey snow. I went on through this wilderness, driven forward by a strange impulse, like a man walking in a dream. The thought of the new building in my native town crossed my mind, that building to which my tormentor Kromer had drawn me to settle accounts with him. In the grey night a similar building stood there in front of me, its black doorway yawning wide. I was drawn towards it, but wanted to shun it and stumbled over sand and rubbish. The impulse was stronger than I, I had to go in. I staggered over planks and broken bricks into the deserted room. There was a mouldy smell of damp, cold stones. A heap of sand lay there, a grey bright speck, otherwise all else was dark. Suddenly a terrified voice called to me: “In God’s name, Sinclair, where have you come from?” And a human figure rose out of the darkness close to me, a little thin shape like a ghost. I recognized, while yet my hair was standing on end, my school companion Knauer. “How did you get here?” he asked, as if mad with excitement. “How have you been able to find me?” I did not understand. “I wasn’t looking for you,” I said, dazed. I spoke with difficulty, the words came from me painfully, as if from dead, heavy, frozen lips. “You weren’t looking for me?” “No. I was drawn here. Did you call me? You must have called. But what are you doing here? It’s still night.” He put his thin arms convulsively round me. “Yes, night. But it must soon be morning. Oh, Sinclair, to think that you didn’t forget me! Can you ever forgive me?” “What then?” “Ah, I was so hateful!” Then I recollected our conversation. Had that taken place four, five days ago? It seemed to me like a lifetime. But suddenly I knew all. Not only what had occurred between us, but also why I had come and what Knauer wanted to do there. “You wanted, then, to take your life, Knauer?” He shuddered through cold and fear. “Yes, I wanted to. I don’t know whether I could have. I wished to wait until the morning came.”