‘Look!’ He pointed at Gurdweill. ‘Here’s our murderer! He was about to denounce the innocent doorman, and now see for yourselves the blood pouring out of his mouth! What more proof could anyone want? The blood of the murdered man, which he swallowed to hide his crime, now bears witness against him!’

And he was immediately seized and dragged through dark corridors and cellars. He could not even cry out, for the cables were still coming endlessly out of his mouth. Then he was thrown into a round room, and he knew that it was a furnace and that he was going to be roasted alive. ‘But this is the Inquisition!’ he wanted to protest. ‘The Inquisition was abolished long ago! What you’re doing to me is against the law!’ But he could not utter a word. They began to undress him, and after all his clothes were gone the heat increased unbearably, until he felt suffocated and the heat seared his mouth and insides. He made a sign with his hand, begging for something to drink, and they took pity on him and brought him water. But when he drank the water it turned to burning fire in his mouth, a thousand times worse than the tortures of his thirst. ‘Oh my God,’ he groaned to himself, they’re torturing me! ‘Have mercy, bring me a little ordinary water to drink! How can anyone be so cruel? How can a man quench his thirst with boiling water? I’m dying of thirst!’

‘Here, drink this,’ said Franzi Mitteldorfer, holding out the glass to him. ‘A glass of tea will make you feel better.’

‘Ah, it’s you!’ said Gurdweill, coming to his senses. ‘Is the tea cold?’

‘It’s just right. Try it and see!’

In a semi-recumbent position he drank up all the tea. Then he said, ‘Now I really must go.’

‘Right. I’ll just write a note for my mother.’

Afterwards she helped him to his feet, supporting him so that he would not fall, and led him with great difficulty down the stairs. She soon realised that it would be impossible to take him home by tram and hailed a passing cab. Throughout the journey Gurdweill did not say a word. He seemed asleep as he sat huddled in the corner of the seat like a dull, shapeless lump.

It was already growing dark when Franzi Mitteldorfer took him up to his room.

‘He’s ill!’ she said to the landlady, who opened the apartment door. This time the old woman understood at once, and she accompanied them into the room and made up a bed on the couch, while Gurdweill sat on a chair supported by Franzi.

‘I knew it!’ the old woman babbled as she made the bed. ‘I knew that he would make himself sick in the end! Working so hard, a fine man like him! And the baby dead too!’