The proprietor of Yoshiwara bowed repeatedly while Slim was climbing into the car. But Slim did not give him another glance. September’s face, which was as grey as steel, was reminiscent of the blades of those ancient swords, forged of Indian steel, in Shiras or Ispahan and on which, hidden by ornamentation, stand mocking and deadly words. The car glided away: September looked after it. He smiled the peacable smile of Eastern Asia. For he knew perfectly well what Slim did not know, and what, apart from him, nobody in Metropolis knew, that with the first drop of water or wine which moistened the lips of a human being, there disappeared even the very faintest memory of all which appertained to the wonders of the drug, Maohee. The car stopped before the next medical depot. Male nurses came and carried away the bundle of humanity, shivering in tatters of white silk, to the doctor on duty. Slim looked about him. He beckoned to a policeman who was stationed near the door. “Take down a report,” he said. His tongue would hardly obey him, so parched was it with thirst. The policeman entered the house after him. “Wait!” said Slim, more with the movement of his head than in words. He saw a glass jug of water standing on the table and the coolness of the water had studded the jug with a thousand pearls. Slim drank like an animal which finds drink on coming from the desert. He put down the jug and shivered. A short shudder passed through him. He turned around and saw the man he had brought with him lying on a bed over which a young doctor was bending. The lips of the sick man were moistened with wine. His eyes stood wide open, staring up at the ceiling, tears upon tears running gently and incessantly from the corners of his eyes, down over his temples. It was as though they had nothing to do with the man—as though they were trickling from a broken vessel and could not stop trickling until the vessel had run quite empty. Slim looked the doctor in the face; the latter shrugged his shoulders. Slim bent over the prostrate man. “Georgi,” he said in a low voice, “can you hear me?” The sick man nodded; it was the shadow of a nod. “Do you know who I am?” A second nod. “Are you in a condition to answer two or three questions?” Another nod. “How did you get the white silk clothes?” For a long time he received no answer apart from the gentle falling of the tear drops. Then came the voice, softer than a whisper. “... He changed with me....” “Who did?” “Freder ... Joh Fredersen’s son....” “And then, Georgi?” “He told me I was to wait for him....” “Wait where, Georgi?” A long silence. And then, barely audible: “Ninetieth Street. House seven. Seventh floor....” Slim did not question him further. He knew who lived there. He looked at the doctor; the latter’s face wore a completely impenetrable expression. Slim drew a breath as though he were sighing. He said, more deploringly than inquiringly: “Why did you not rather go there, Georgi....”