“A lot _you_ know about that! Your business is to look after my investments, nothing else. You are but my manager. Enough on that head. Is there anything else to tell me?” The lawyer described his latest financial operations to Mabuse, who took down the descriptions furnished him. Then he walked backwards and forwards alone on the foreshore for five minutes, to ease himself after his long sitting. “Is Spoerri still there?” he asked. “Spoerri, you need not go to Zürich. Ebenhügel will take the portfolio with him. We will go back to Schachen together.” Upon the return journey Mabuse could not remain still in one place. He was constantly backwards and forwards on the small deck. The three convoys were again throbbing in their neighbourhood, their sounds drowned in the ghostly darkness. Suddenly Mabuse called through the speaking-tube to George, demanding brandy. Spoerri heard the order and shrank in terror. In the half-hour which the passage took, Mabuse drank the bottle empty. He was drunk when they landed, and he staggered through the darkness towards the house in front of them, having issued orders that they were not to follow for five minutes. “We want more drink,” said he, when they were in the dining-room. “George, bring drinks!” George shuddered, for he knew that the more the doctor drank, the more violent and unreasonable he became. Spoerri himself was always obliged to drink till he lost his senses. They drank champagne and brandy mixed in equal parts. “This is liquid gold,” stuttered Mabuse thickly. “Here, George, bring bigger glasses! Let’s have the goblets. Spoerri, take a draught. You fool of a courier, drink; drink it down, you dog. Down with it into your currish throat! Now then, another! Drink till you can’t hold any more in that carcass of yours. I love to see you drink till you’re sick!” Spoerri drank until everything swam round him and he lapsed into unconsciousness. “And you, my lord Wenk! A State Attorney in Munich! Your notebook! _Your_ orders to the Criminal Investigation Department, forsooth! Just wait a moment, my fine gentleman! We’ll begin with Herr Hull, for he was the first.... (Drink, Spoerri, can’t you, you miserable country bumpkin, drink; drink as I do!) Let me see--Hull, yes, Edgar Hull, 34, Hubertusstrasse. Away with him, his turn first. George will look after it, and you can help him. The Carozza girl can contrive it. Find your accomplices. Write it down, it is the order of the ... Prince. (Drink it down, now!) Of the Prince, have you written that? Which prince, do you say? The Prince, the Emperor of Citopomar, in Southern Brazil. A word from his mouth and a thousand women lie bathed in their blood, five hundred men are reduced to impotence. One single word and a whole edifice totters! Don’t simper, you fool, or I’ll dash your brains out with this goblet!” He flung the vessel down, shattering it in pieces, and with the fragments he threatened Spoerri. “I ... I am writing it,” stammered Spoerri.