He tapped with his right forefinger upon a maze of crosses in the centre of the plan. “Here he lies. Just on this spot. His skull must have enclosed a brain which was worthy of your own, Joh Fredersen, and he had to perish because he once lost his way.... What a pity for him....” “Where did he lose his way?” asked Joh Fredersen. Rotwang looked long at him before speaking. “In the city of graves, over which Metropolis stands,” he answered at last. “Deep below the moles’ tunnels of your underground railway, Joh Fredersen, lies the thousand-year-old Metropolis of the thousand-year-old dead....” Joh Fredersen was silent. His left eyebrow rose, while his eyes narrowed. He fixed his gaze upon Rotwang, who had not taken his eyes from him. “What is the plan of this city of graves doing in the hands and pockets of my workmen?” “That is yet to be discovered,” answered Rotwang. “Will you help me?” “Yes.” “To-night?” “Very well.” “I shall come back after the changing of the shift.” “Do so, Joh Fredersen. And if you take some good advice....” “Well?” “Come in the uniform of your workmen, when you come back!” Joh Fredersen raised his head but the great inventor did not let him speak. He raised his hand as one calling for and admonishing to silence. “The skull of the man in the red shoes also enclosed a powerful brain, Joh Fredersen, but nevertheless, he could not find his way homewards from those who dwell down there....” Joh Fredersen reflected. He nodded and turned to go. “Be courteous, my beautiful Parody,” said Rotwang. “Open the doors for the Master over the great Metropolis.” The being glided past Joh Fredersen. He felt the breath of coldness which came forth from it. He saw the silent laughter between the half-open lips of Rotwang, the great inventor. He turned pale with rage, but he remained silent. The being stretched out the transparent hand in which the bones shone silver, and, touching it with its finger-tips, moved the seal of Solomon, which glowed copperish. The door yielded back. Joh Fredersen went out after the being, which stepped downstairs before him. There was no light on the stairs, nor in the narrow passage. But a shimmer came from the being no stronger than that of a green-burning candle, yet strong enough to lighten up the stairs and the black walls. At the house-door the being stopped still and waited for Joh Fredersen, who was walking slowly along behind it. The house-door opened before him, but not far enough for him to pass out through the opening. The eyes stared at him from the mass-head of the being, eyes as though painted on closed lids, with the expression of calm madness. “Be courteous, my beautiful Parody,” said a soft, far-off voice, which sounded as though the house were talking in its sleep.