‘Well said, Herr Gurdweill, hee-hee, well said, twin brothers indeed! A cigar, you say … With pleasure! But this afternoon. I haven’t got any more on me now. That girl, Gertrude, in your story, whose love for Reinhold is only aroused when he’s blinded in his right eye, she’s a really interesting character … A rare psychological phenomenon, just waiting for a true artist like you. To tell the truth, hee-hee, as far as I’m concerned you hit the nail on the head there … I had exactly the same thing on my mind for some time before the story appeared, and I came to the same conclusion as you did — the very same conclusion, believe it or not! You said exactly the same things that I had in mind. Let me tell you that if I didn’t know you were an honest man, if I didn’t know that such a thing was out of the question — I might even have suspected you of stealing my ideas! Don’t take offence, my dear Gurdweill, it’s only a manner of speaking, of course, to illustrate how similarly our minds work — that’s all!’

Gurdweill sat facing Dr Kreindel and looked at him with a smile. He wanted to see how far his employer would go if he didn’t stop him. But Dr Kreindel was already on the point of concluding. His excitement had waned and, besides, he felt that Gurdweill had missed the point and his words had been wasted on him. He only asked: ‘And what are you writing now, my friend?’

‘I’m not writing anything,’ said Gurdweill innocently. ‘I’ve finished all the letters.’

‘Not bad, hee-hee-hee … What does Novalis say? The profound mystery of a word, which … et cetera. But that’s not what I meant, of course. I was referring to your creative writing, hee-hee. What literary work are you engaged upon at the moment?’

‘I’m not engaged at present, nor will I be engaged in the future, upon any literary work at all.’

‘But why not?’ Dr Kreindel began to get excited again. ‘I can’t believe you said that seriously! Impossible! You won’t deprive me of that great pleasure — the only pleasure, you might say, that I have in the world! Why, it’s exactly as if I were the writer myself! Just like here in the office, when you apparently do all the writing, but the real writer is me …’

At this moment Dr Kreindel’s wife, a vivacious little blonde, burst into the room, bringing with her a cloud of perfume and a gust of chilly autumn air. She immediately began talking rapidly, as if she were continuing a conversation begun outside.