a partner of the forger’s brother, and that his name was Strawman.  Later on I learned that the aforesaid Strawman used to run a circulating library, but that he was now the police reporter of a big daily.  How in the world could I hope to establish a connection between the forgery, the police, and my little man’s peculiar manners?  It was beyond me; and when I asked a friend whether Strawman had ever been punished for something, my friend couldn’t answer either yes or no—­he just didn’t know! [Pause.]

MR. Y. Well, had he ever been—­punished?

MR. X. No, he had not. [Pause.]

MR. Y. And that was the reason, you think, why the police had such an attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of offending people?

MR. X. Exactly!

MR. Y. And did you become acquainted with him afterward?

MR. X. No, I didn’t want to. [Pause.]

MR. Y. Would you have been willing to make his acquaintance if he had been—­punished?

MR. X. Perfectly!

(MR. Y. rises and walks back and forth several times.)

MR. X. Sit still!  Why can’t you sit still?

MR. Y. How did you get your liberal view of human conditions?  Are you a Christian?

MR. X. Oh, can’t you see that I am not?

(MR. Y. makes a face.)

MR. X. The Christians require forgiveness.  But I require punishment in order that the balance, or whatever you may call it, be restored.  And you, who have served a term, ought to know the difference.

MR. Y. [Stands motionless and stares at MR. X., first with wild, hateful eyes, then with surprise and admiration] How—­could—­you—­ know—­that?

MR. X. Why, I could see it.

MR. Y. How?  How could you see it?

MR. X, Oh, with a little practice.  It is an art, like many others.  But don’t let us talk of it any more. [He looks at his watch, arranges a document on the table, dips a pen in the ink-well, and hands it to MR. Y.] I must be thinking of my tangled affairs.  Won’t you please witness my signature on this note here?  I am going to turn it in to the bank at Malmo tomorrow, when I go to the city with you.

MR. Y. I am not going by way of Malmo.

MR. X. Oh, you are not?

MR. Y. No.

MR. X. But that need not prevent you from witnessing my signature.

MR. Y. N-no!—­I never write my name on papers of that kind—­

MR. X.—­any longer!  This is the fifth time you have refused to write your own name.  The first time nothing more serious was involved than the receipt for a registered letter.  Then I began to watch you.  And since then I have noticed that you have a morbid fear of a pen filled with ink.  You have not written a single letter since you came here—­only a post-card, and that you wrote with a blue pencil.  You understand now that I have figured out the exact nature of your slip?  Furthermore!  This is something like the seventh