He was drunk, and his drunkenness was working him into an ugly mood. He was dangerous, and physical courage was never my strong point. "What is the name of the Berlin company?" I asked timidly. He named the firm I myself worked for. Then he fumbled for his bottle, and with stern and painful attention set about the difficult and delicate task of filling his glass again. I muttered something about being back in a moment, and made for the door. He was too busy to pay any attention to me. When I had the door safely shut behind me, I sprinted through the rain to my hotel as if the devil himself were after me.... * * * * * It was a long time before I got over waking up in the middle of the night with the feeling that an icy, iron-muscled hand was clutching at my throat. I don't have the experience often any more, but I have never seen the city of my birth since that awful night. I got out on the midnight train, and my company obligingly gave me territory on the other side of Germany. Some time ago I happened to see a notice in the paper to the effect that a certain patient named G. Banaotovich had died suddenly in the Staatliche Nervenheilanstalt in Nuremberg. But I have met the name rather frequently of late, and I think it is a fairly common one. I didn't investigate. * * * * * [Footnote 1: Adapted by Roy Temple House from the German.]