east. Well, in fact, in
fact, I shall say, my dear Doctor, ha, ha! But just look at this too,
in the _Non-Partisan_. Only look at this title, will you please!"

"Which one--?"

"Why, this one!"

"An interrogation point?"

"Yes! Ha, ha-- Simply an interrogation point! And beneath that: Where
is Michael Petroff? An appeal to the public! But look at this, in the
little _Feuilleton_: Michael Petroff, a Captain in the Russian army,
has just completed his six-volume work on Shooting Stars. All the
scientific journals are praising the clearness and acumen of this
epoch-making work. Ha, ha, ha, didn't I tell you that there was news,
my friend?"

The lawyer crouched in the sofa corner and made such an effort to
think, that he held his breath.

"I don't understand--?" he whispered and slowly shook his head.

"What don't you understand?"

"That he should keep you in confinement."

Michael Petroff glanced at the lawyer in surprise. Then he leaned
forward and whispered: "But I have already told you that my relations
pay him."

"They pay him?"

"Yes, of course!" answered Michael Petroff cheerfully. "Enormous sums.
Millions!"

"Oh!" The lawyer began to understand now.

"Yes, you see, that is how it is in the world!" said Michael Petroff,
and snapped his fingers.

But the lawyer did not wholly comprehend yet.

"I do not understand," he began again. "Dr. Maerz is so kindhearted. I
live here, I have my home and my food and I pay nothing. He has never
asked me for any money.--I have no money, you know," he ended anxiously
in a still lower tone.

Michael Petroff laid his hand pompously but protectingly on his
friend's shoulder. "You work in the garden," said he, "you water the
flowers. How could he have the face to expect you to pay money? That is
perfectly simple. But perhaps you too have relations outside who pay
for you?"

"Relations?"

"Yes. Outside--there!" A bitter smile curved Michael Petroff's
beautiful boyish mouth. Should he tell this little old man in the
woolen shawl where he really was? Should he perhaps explain to this
little old man with the grayish wrinkled face, that there was an
"outside"--where one could even get into a railway train or wash one's
hands before sitting down to table? Suddenly he stood up on his tiptoes
and instantly lost all conception of his own actual body; he seemed to
himself like a gigantic tower rising up to the clouds, and looking down
on the little baldheaded man, who ha