writing love letters. This one seemed to him to be written sincerely and directly. Mr. Paul ran round with it; the noise of the piano in the other wing was suddenly cut short and all was quiet.
Meanwhile Prokop had run off to Carson. He met him near the workshops and went straight to the point: Could he be allowed to go about without Holz? He was prepared to take an oath that until further notice he would not attempt to escape. Mr. Carson grinned significantly. But certainly, why not? He could be as free as a bird, aha! go where he liked and when he liked, if he would oblige him in one detail: give up Krakatit. Prokop grew furious: “I’ve given you Vicit: what more do you want? Man, I’ve told you that you won’t get Krakatit even if you cut my head off!”
Mr. Carson shrugged his shoulders and expressed his regret that in that case there was nothing to be done, since anyone who carried Krakatit under his hat was a public danger, a classical case of preventative supervision. “Get rid of Krakatit, and there you are,” he said. “It’ll be worth your while. Otherwise . . . otherwise we shall have to consider sending you somewhere else.”
Prokop, who was just about to fall upon him, suddenly stopped, mumbled that he understood, and ran home. Perhaps there’s an answer, he said to himself; but there was none.
In the afternoon Prokop began his wait in the Japanese summer-house. Until four o’clock he was filled with anxious, disturbing hope: now—now she may come every moment. After four o’clock he could not bear to sit down any longer; he paced
