“Arnold,” he said suddenly, as if he had reached a swift and hazardous decision, “you are to be my private guest. If you are assuming ignorance for safety, you shall learn that there is nothing to fear from me. And when you trust me, you shall give me the news of Paul and all our friends. If you are actually a Spaniard—no, tell me nothing—it is essential that you should learn what all our inmates know, before you go to the Council. Doctor Sanson is not tolerant of strangers unless they learn to conform.... I shall help you in every way that is possible. The Bureau Head has asked me to watch you carefully. It is a special order from headquarters. There is some rumor about you ... but it will be all right in my own apartment.” I felt too heartbroken more than to thank him briefly. The sense of my isolation in this new world swept over me with poignant power. David must have guessed something of my feeling, for he said nothing more. We halted for a moment at the entrance to the building, and he pulled a watch from his pocket. I saw that the dial, which was not faced with glass, and had the hands inset, was divided into ten main sections, each comprising ten smaller ones. “Ten hours and seventy-four,” he said. “We dine at one-fifty. Seventy-six minutes to get home.” CHAPTER VI THE STRANGERS’ HOUSE During my brief journeys through the streets earlier in the day I had been too conscious of my surprise and perplexity to examine my surroundings with any concentration of mind. Now, standing on the middle platform of what seemed to be one of the principal streets and traveled at a speed of about eight miles an hour, I looked about me with increasing astonishment. I do not know which attracted my attention more, the crowds or the buildings. I asked David for information as we proceeded, stating that I was unable to read the signs, as I was acquainted only with the old alphabet. Seeing his incredulity, I added: “When you are willing, I shall be glad to tell you my history, though I shall hardly hope to be believed. For the present, let me say that I know nothing at all of your modern civilization.” “But surely in Russia—” David began, and checked himself. Thereafter he seemed to admit the possibility that I was not dissembling, and to consider me as a bona fide traveler from some interior Russian province. “Our writing is syllabic,” he said. “We have gone the round of the circle and now make the syllable the unit instead of the letter, as the Assyrians did, and the Chinese.” “And what is the purpose of this blue paint on the buildings?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the dazzling, blue-white luster. “Blue?” repeated David in surprise. “There—and there.” “Why, that is glow, of course,” he answered. “Surely you are not color-blind, Arnold? Or can it be that in—where you came from they have only the old seven colors in the spectrum?” “From red to violet.”