Rotwang looked at him, jerkily turning his great skull towards him. The glorious eyes crept behind their lids as though wishing to have nothing in common with the strong white teeth and the jaws of the beast of prey. But from beneath the almost closed lids they gazed at Joh Fredersen, as though they sought in his face the door to the great brain. “How can one bind you, Joh Fredersen,” he murmured, “what is a word to you—or an oath.... Oh God ... you with your own laws. What promise would you keep if the breaking of it seemed expedient to you?” “Don’t talk rubbish, Rotwang,” said Joh Fredersen. “I shall hold my tongue because I still need you. I know quite well that the people whom we need are our solitary tyrants. So, if you know, speak.” Rotwang still hesitated; but gradually a smile took possession of his features—a good natured and mysterious smile, which was amusing itself at itself. “You are standing on the entrance,” he said. “What does that mean?” “To be taken literally, Joh Fredersen! You are standing on the entrance.” “What entrance, Rotwang? You are wasting time that does not belong to you....” The smile on Rotwang’s face deepened to serenity. “Do you recollect, Joh Fredersen, how obstinately I refused, that time, to let the underground railway be run under my house?” “Indeed I do! I still know the sum the detour cost me, also!” “The secret was expensive, I admit, but it was worth it. Just take a look at the plan, Joh Fredersen, what is that?” “Perhaps a flight of stairs....” “Quite certainly a flight of stairs. It is a very slovenly execution in the drawing as in reality....” “So you know them?” “I have the honour, Joh Fredersen—yes. Now come two paces sideways. What is that?” He had taken Joh Fredersen by the arm. He felt the fingers of the artificial hand pressing into his muscles like the claws of a bird of prey. With the right one Rotwang indicated the spot upon which Joh Fredersen had stood. “What is that?” he asked, shaking the hand which he held in his grip. Joh Fredersen bent down. He straightened himself up again. “A door?” “Right, Joh Fredersen! A door! A perfectly fitting and well shutting door. The man who built this house was an orderly and careful person. Only once did he omit to give heed, and then he had to pay for it. He went down the stairs which are under the door, followed the careless steps and passages which are connected with them, and never found his way back. It is not easy to find, for those who lodged there did not care to have strangers penetrate into their domain.... I found my inquisitive predecessor, Joh Fredersen, and recognised him at once—by his pointed red shoes, which have preserved themselves wonderfully. As a corpse he looked peaceful and Christian-like, both of which he certainly was not in his life. The companions of his last hours probably contributed considerably to the conversion of the erstwhile devil’s disciple....”