There were neither plates nor knives nor forks upon the table, and at a sign from Keyork the Individual retired to procure those Western incumbrances to eating.  The Wanderer, acquainted as he had long been with his host’s eccentricities, showed little surprise, but understood that whatever he said would not be overheard, any more than if they had been alone.  He hesitated a moment, however, for he had not determined exactly how far it was necessary to acquaint Keyork with the circumstances, and he was anxious to avoid all reference to Unorna’s folly in regard to himself.  The Individual returned, bringing, with other things, a drinking-glass for the Wanderer.  Keyork filled it and then filled his own.  It was clear that ascetic practices formed no part of his scheme for the prolongation of life.  As he raised his glass to his lips, his bright eyes twinkled.

“To Keyork’s long life and happiness,” he said calmly, and then sipped the wine.  “And now for your story,” he added, brushing the brown drops from his white moustache with a small damask napkin which the Individual presented to him and immediately received again, to throw it aside as unfit for a second use.

“I hardly think that we can afford to linger over supper,” the Wanderer said, noticing Keyork’s coolness with some anxiety.  “The case is urgent.  Israel Kafka has lost his head completely.  He has sworn to kill Unorna, and is at the present moment confined in the conservatory in her house.”

The effect of the announcement upon Keyork was so extraordinary that the Wanderer started, not being prepared for any manifestation of what seemed to be the deepest emotion.  The gnome sprang from the table with a cry that would have been like the roar of a wounded wild beast if it had not articulated a terrific blasphemy.

“Unorna is quite safe,” the Wanderer hastened to say.

“Safe—­where?” shouted the little man, his hands already on his furs.  The Individual, too, had sprung across the room like a cat and was helping him.  In five seconds Keyork would have been out of the house.

“In a convent.  I took her there, and saw the gate close behind her.”

Keyork dropped his furs and stood still a moment.  The Individual, always unmoved, rearranged the coat and cap neatly in their place, following all his master’s movements, however, with his small eyes.  Then the sage broke out in a different strain.  He flung his arms round the Wanderer’s body and attempted to embrace him.

“You have saved my life!—­the curse of the three black angels on you for not saying so first!” he cried in an agony of ecstasy.  “Preserver!  What can I do for you?—­Saviour of my existence, how can I repay you!  You shall live forever, as I will; you shall have all my secrets; the gold spider shall spin her web in your dwelling; the Part of Fortune shall shine on your path, it shall rain jewels on your roof; and your winter shall have snows of pearls—­you shall—­”