After he had tried in vain to keep from brooding over this incident, he showed the letter to Crammon, in the secret hope that his friend would warn him against any response. Crammon read the letter, but shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. Crammon was in a bad humour; Crammon was hurt. He had felt for some time that Christian excluded him from his confidence. In addition he was thinking far more of Eva Sorel than was good for the peace of his soul. He paid ardent attention to Fräulein von Einsiedel, nor was that lady unresponsive. But this triumph could not restore the equilibrium of his mind, and Becker’s letter opened his old wound anew. Christian put an end to his vacillation by a sudden decision, and started out to find Becker. The house was in the suburbs, and he had to climb the four flights of stairs of a common tenement. He was careful to come in contact with neither the walls nor the balustrades. When he had reached the door and pulled the bell, he was pale with embarrassment and disgust. When Christian had entered the shabbily furnished room and sat opposite Becker, what impressed him most was the stamp of suffering on the Russian’s face. He asked himself whether this was new or whether he had merely not perceived it before. When Becker spoke to him, his answers were shy and awkward. “Madame Sorel is going to Petrograd in the spring,” Ivan Michailovitch told him. “She has signed a three-months’ contract with the Imperial Theatre there.” Christian expressed his pleasure at this information. “Are you going to stay here long?” he asked, courteously. “I don’t know,” was the answer. “I’m waiting for a message here. Afterwards I shall join my friends in Switzerland.” “My last conversation with Madame Sorel,” he continued, “was exclusively about you.” He watched Christian attentively out of his deep-set eyes. “About me? Ah....” Christian forced himself to a conventional smile. “She insisted on my remaining in communication with you. She said that it meant much to her, but gave no reason. She never does give reasons, though. She insisted likewise that I send her a report. Yet she did not even give me a message for you. But she kept repeating: ‘It means something to me, and it may mean very much to him.’ So you see that I am only her instrument. But I hope that you are not angry with me for annoying you.” “Not in the least,” Christian asserted, although he felt oppressed. “Only I can’t imagine what is in her mind.” He sat there wondering, and added: “She has her very personal ways!” Ivan Becker smiled, and the moisture of his thick lips became unpleasantly visible. “It is very true. She is an enthusiastic creature, and a woman of great gifts. She has power over others, and is determined to use that power.” A pause ensued. “Can I be of assistance to you?” Christian asked conventionally.