im and of removing the Moravian in his present condition.
The man was still very weak and either altogether unconscious, or
sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. The weather, too, was bitterly cold,
and the exposure to the night air might bring on immediate and fatal
consequences. He examined Kafka closely and came to the conclusion that
he was really asleep. To wake him would be absolutely cruel as well as
dangerous. He looked kindly at the weary face and then began to walk
up and down between the plants, coming back at the end of every turn to
look again and assure himself that no change had taken place.

After some time he began to wonder at the total silence in the house,
or, rather, the silence which was carefully provided for in the
conservatory impressed itself upon him for the first time. It was
strange, he thought, that no one came to put out the lamps. He thought
of looking out into the vestibule beyond, to see whether the lights were
still burning there. To his great surprise he found the door securely
fastened. Keyork Arabian had undoubtedly locked him in, and to all
intents and purposes he was a prisoner. He suspected some treachery,
but in this he was mistaken. Keyork's sole intention had been to insure
himself from being disturbed in the course of the night by a second
visit from the Wanderer, accompanied perhaps by Kafka. It immediately
occurred to the Wanderer that he could ring the bell. But disliking the
idea of entering into an explanation, he reserved that for an emergency.
Had he attempted it he would have been still further surprised to find
that it would have produced no result. In going through the vestibule
Keyork had used Kafka's sharp knife to cut one of the slender
silk-covered copper wires which passed out of the conservatory on
that side, communicating with the servants' quarters. He was perfectly
acquainted with all such details of the household arrangement.

Keyork's precautions were in reality useless and they merely illustrate
the ruthlessly selfish character of the man. The Wanderer would in all
probability neither have attempted to leave the house with Kafka that
night, nor to communicate with the servants, even if he had been left
free to do either, and if no one had disturbed him in his watch. He was
disturbed, however, and very unexpectedly, between half-past one and a
quarter to two in the morning.

More than once he had remained seated for a long time, but his eyes
were growing he