Now I was lying in a room, on a bed made up on the floor. I felt I had arrived at the place to which I had been called.
I glanced around, close to my mattress was another, on which someone was lying, someone who bent over and looked at me.
It was Max Demian. I could not speak, and he either could not or would not. He only looked at me.
A lamp which hung over him on the wall cast a light on his face.
He smiled at me. For what seemed an immeasurably long time he gazed unwaveringly into my eyes.
Slowly he inclined his face towards me, until we almost touched.
“Sinclair!” he said in a whisper. I signaled to him with my eyes that I understood him.
He smiled again, almost as if in compassion. “Little one!” he said, smiling.
His mouth lay now quite close to mine. Softly he continued to speak.
“Can you still remember Frank Kromer?” he asked. I winked at him, and could even manage to smile.
“Sinclair, old man, listen: I shall have to go away. Perhaps you will need me once again, on account of Kromer, or something.
When you call me, I shall not come riding on a horse, or in a train.
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