There were in Metropolis, in this city of reasoned, methodical hurry, very many who would rather have gone far out of their way than have passed by Rotwang’s house. It hardly reached knee-high to the house-giants which stood near it. It stood at an angle to the street. To the cleanly town, which knew neither smoke nor soot, it was a blot and an annoyance. But it remained. When Rotwang left the house and crossed the street, which occurred but seldom, there were many who covertly looked at his feet, to see if, perhaps, he walked in red shoes. Before the door of this house, on which the seal of Solomon glowed, stood Joh Fredersen. He had sent the car away and had knocked. He waited, then knocked again. A voice asked, as if the house were speaking in its sleep: “Who is there?” “Joh Fredersen,” said the man. The door opened. He entered. The door closed. He stood in darkness. But Joh Fredersen knew the house well. He walked straight on, and as he walked, the shimmering tracks of two stepping feet glistened before him, along the passage, and the edge of the stair began to glow. Like a dog showing the track, the glow ran on before him, up the steps, to die out behind him. He reached the top of the stairs and looked about him. He knew that many doors opened out here. But on the one opposite him the copper seal glowed like a distorted eye, which looked at him. He stepped up to it. The door opened before him. Many doors as Rotwang’s house possessed, this was the only one which opened itself to Joh Fredersen, although, and even, perhaps, because, the owner of this house knew full well that it always meant no mean effort for Joh Fredersen to cross this threshold. He drew in the air of the room, lingeringly, but deeply, as though seeking in it the trace of another breath.... His nonchalant hand threw his hat on a chair. Slowly, in sudden and mournful weariness, he let his eyes wander through the room. It was almost empty. A large, time-blackened chair, such as are to be found in old churches, stood before drawn curtains. These curtains covered a recess the width of the wall. Joh Fredersen remained standing by the door for a long time, without moving. He had closed his eyes. With incomparable impotence he breathed in the odour of hyacinths, which seemed to fill the motionless air of this room. Without opening his eyes, swaying a little, but aim-sure, he walked up to the heavy, black curtains and drew them apart. Then he opened his eyes and stood quite still.... On a pedestal, the breadth of the wall, rested the head of a woman in stone....