He turned to go but stopped still as Georgi’s voice came wavering after him. “... The city .... all the lights ... more than enough money.... It is written.... Forgive us our trespasses ... lead us not into temptation....” His voice died away. His head fell to one side. He breathed as though his soul wept, for his eyes could do so no longer. The doctor cleared his throat cautiously. Slim raised his head as though somebody had called him, then dropped it again. “I shall come back again,” he said softly. “He is to remain under your care....” Georgi was asleep. Slim left the room, followed by the policeman. “What do you want?” Slim asked with an absent-minded look at him. “The report, sir.” “What report?” “I was to take down a report, sir.” Slim looked at the policeman very attentively, almost meditatively. He raised his hand and rubbed it across his forehead. “A mistake,” he said. “That was a mistake....” The policeman saluted and retired, a little puzzled, for he knew Slim. He remained standing on the same spot. Again and again he rubbed his forehead with the same helpless gesture. Then he shook his head, stepped into the car and said: “Ninetieth block....” CHAPTER VII “Where is Georgi?” asked Freder, his eyes wandering through Josaphat’s three rooms, which stretched out before him—beautiful, with a rather bewildering super-abundance of armchairs, divans and silk cushions, with curtains which goldenly obscured the light. “Who?” asked Josaphat, listlessly. He had waited, had not slept and his eyes stood excessively large in his thin, almost white face. His gaze, which he did not take from Freder, was like hands which are raised adoringly. “Georgi,” repeated Freder. He smiled happily with his tired mouth. “Who is that?” asked Josaphat. “I sent him to you.” “Nobody has come.” Freder looked at him without answering. “I sat all night in this chair,” continued Josaphat, misinterpreting Freder’s silence. “I did not sleep a wink. I expected you to come at any second, or a messenger to come from you, or that you would ring me up. I also informed the watchman. Nobody has come, Mr. Freder.” Freder still remained silent. Slowly, almost stumblingly he stepped over the threshold, into the room raising his right hand to his head, as though to take off his hat, then noticing that he was wearing the cap, the black cap, which pressed the hair tightly down, he swept it from his head; it fell to the ground. His hand sank from his brow, over his eyes, resting there a little while. Then the other joined it, as though wishing to console its sister. His form was like that of a young birch tree pressed sideways by a strong wind. Josaphat’s eyes hung on the uniform which Freder wore. “Mr. Freder,” he began cautiously, “how comes it that you are wearing these clothes?” Freder remained turned away from him. He took his hands from his eyes and pressed them to his face as though he felt some pain there.