He did not dare to take upon himself the responsibility of calling some one to help him and of removing the Moravian in his present condition.  The man was still very weak and either altogether unconscious, or sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.  The weather, too, was bitterly cold, and the exposure to the night air might bring on immediate and fatal consequences.  He examined Kafka closely and came to the conclusion that he was really asleep.  To wake him would be absolutely cruel as well as dangerous.  He looked kindly at the weary face and then began to walk up and down between the plants, coming back at the end of every turn to look again and assure himself that no change had taken place.

After some time he began to wonder at the total silence in the house, or, rather, the silence which was carefully provided for in the conservatory impressed itself upon him for the first time.  It was strange, he thought, that no one came to put out the lamps.  He thought of looking out into the vestibule beyond, to see whether the lights were still burning there.  To his great surprise he found the door securely fastened.  Keyork Arabian had undoubtedly locked him in, and to all intents and purposes he was a prisoner.  He suspected some treachery, but in this he was mistaken.  Keyork’s sole intention had been to insure himself from being disturbed in the course of the night by a second visit from the Wanderer, accompanied perhaps by Kafka.  It immediately occurred to the Wanderer that he could ring the bell.  But disliking the idea of entering into an explanation, he reserved that for an emergency.  Had he attempted it he would have been still further surprised to find that it would have produced no result.  In going through the vestibule Keyork had used Kafka’s sharp knife to cut one of the slender silk-covered copper wires which passed out of the conservatory on that side, communicating with the servants’ quarters.  He was perfectly acquainted with all such details of the household arrangement.

Keyork’s precautions were in reality useless and they merely illustrate the ruthlessly selfish character of the man.  The Wanderer would in all probability neither have attempted to leave the house with Kafka that night, nor to communicate with the servants, even if he had been left free to do either, and if no one had disturbed him in his watch.  He was disturbed, however, and very unexpectedly, between half-past one and a quarter to two in the morning.

More than once he had remained seated for a long time, but his eyes were growing heavy and he roused himself and walked again until he was thoroughly awake.  It was certainly true that of all the persons concerned in the events of the day, except Keyork, he had undergone the least bodily fatigue and mental excitement.  But even to the strongest, the hours of the night spent in watching by a sick person seem endless when there is no really strong personal anxiety felt.  He was undoubtedly interested in Kafka’s fate,