Sorgenfrei. Free of care. Sans Souci. The sort of name someone of limited imagination might give to a country retreat. But there is something here that utterly contradicts the suggestion of the rich bourgeoisie resting from their money-making.

When I went down to dinner I found Ramsay in the library. That is to say, in an English country-house it would have been the library, comfortable and pleasant, but at Sorgenfrei it is too oppressively literary; bookshelves rise to a high, painted ceiling, on which is written in decorative Gothic script what I can just make out to be the Ten Commandments. There is a huge terrestrial globe, balanced by an equally huge celestial one. A big telescope, not much less than a century old, I judged, is mounted at one of the windows that look out on the mountains. On a low table sits a very modern object, which I discovered was five chess-boards mounted one above another in a brass frame; there are chessmen on each board, arranged as for five different games in progress; the boards are made of transparent lucite or some such material, so that it is possible to look down through them from above and see the position of every man. There was a good fire, and Ramsay was warming his legs, one flesh and one artificial, in front of it. He caught my mood at once.

—Extraordinary house, isn’t it?

—Very. Is this where you live now?

—I’m a sort of permanent guest. My position is rather in the eighteenth-century mode. You know—people of intellectual tastes kept a philosopher or a scholar around the place. Liesl likes my conversation. I like hers. Funny way for a Canadian schoolmaster to end up, don’t you think?

—You were never an ordinary schoolmaster, sir.

—Don’t call me sir, Davey. We’re old friends. Your father was my oldest friend; if friends is what we were, which I sometimes doubted. But you’re not a lad now. You’re a notable criminal lawyer; what used to be called “an eminent silk.” Of course the problem is that I haven’t any name by which all my friends call me. What did you call me at school? Was it Corky? Corky Ramsay? Stupid name, really. Artificial legs haven’t been made of cork in a very long time.

—If you really want to know, we called you Buggerlugs. Because of your habit of digging in your ear with your little finger, you know.

—Really? Well, I don’t think I like that much. You’d better call me Ramsay, like Liesl.

—I notice she generally calls you “dear Ramsay.”

—Yes; we’re rather close friends. More than that, for a while. Does that surprise you?

—You’ve just said I’m an experienced criminal lawyer; nothing surprises me.

—Never say that, Davey. Never, never say that. Especially not at Sorgenfrei.

—You yourself just said it was an extraordinary house.

—Oh, quite so. Rather a marvel, in its peculiar style. But that wasn’t precisely what I meant.

We were interrupted by Liesl, who appeared through a door which I had not noticed because it is one of those nineteenth-century affairs, fitted close into the bookshelves and covered with false book-backs, so that it can hardly be seen. She was wearing something very like a man’s evening suit, made in dark velvet, and looked remarkably elegant. I was beginning not to notice her Gorgon face. Ramsay turned to her rather anxiously, I thought.