“You will let me know, will you not?” she said. “I am anxious about him.” He raised his eyebrows a little and dropped her hand. “You shall be informed,” he said. Kafka helped her to get into the carriage. She drew him by the hand so that his head was inside the door and the other man could not hear her words. “I am anxious about you,” she said very kindly. “Make him come himself to me and tell me how you are.” “Surely--if you have asked him--” “He hates me,” whispered Unorna quickly. “Unless you make him come he will send no message.” “Then let me come myself--I am perfectly well--” “Hush--no!” she answered hurriedly. “Do as I say--it will be best for you--and for me. Good-bye.” “Your word is my law,” said Kafka, drawing back. His eyes were bright and his thin cheek was flushed. It was long since she had spoken so kindly to him. A ray of hope entered his life. The Wanderer saw the look and interpreted it rightly. He understood that in that brief moment Unorna had found time to do some mischief. Her carriage drove on, and left the two men free to enter the one intended for them. Kafka gave the driver the address of his lodgings. Then he sank back into the corner, exhausted and conscious of his extreme weakness. A short silence followed. “You are in need of rest,” said the Wanderer, watching him curiously. “Indeed, I am very tired, if not actually ill.” “You have suffered enough to tire the strongest.” “In what way?” asked Kafka. “I have forgotten what happened. I know that I followed Unorna to the cemetery. I had been to her house, and I saw you afterwards together. I had not spoken to her since I came back from my long journey this morning. Tell me what occurred. Did she make me sleep? I feel as I have felt before when I have fancied that she has hypnotised me.” The Wanderer looked at him in surprise. The question was asked as naturally as though it referred to an everyday occurrence of little or no weight. “Yes,” he answered. “She made you sleep.” “Why? Do you know? If she has made me dream something, I have forgotten it.” The Wanderer hesitated a moment. “I cannot answer your question,” he said, at length. “Ah--she told me that you hated her,” said Kafka, turning his dark eyes to his companion. “But, yet,” he added, “that is hardly a reason why you should not tell me what happened.” “I could not tell you the truth without saying something which I have no right to say to a stranger--which I could not easily say to a friend.” “You need not spare me--” “It might save you.” “Then say it--though I do not know from what danger I am to be saved. But I can guess, perhaps. You would advise me to give up the attempt to win her.” “Precisely. I need say no more.” “On the contrary,” said Kafka with sudden energy, “when a man gives such advice as that to a stranger he is bound to give also his reasons.” The Wanderer looked at him calmly as he answered.