I take shelter behind the excuse of having some business to do, and the question remains undecided. In the afternoon I get another letter, to say that the poet is ill and wants his friend's medical advice.
"What is he suffering from now?" I ask.
"He suffers from neurasthenia and believes himself persecuted——"
"By demons?"
"Not exactly that, but anyhow——"
An access of grim humour elicited by the fact of having a brother in misfortune makes me determine to go with him. "Very well then, let us start," I say; "you see to the medicine and I will see to the exorcism." When the matter is settled, I pack my portmanteau, and as I go down the hotel steps I am unexpectedly accosted by an unknown female.
"Excuse me, are you Dr. Norberg?"
"No, I am not," I answer, not exactly politely, for I thought she was a disreputable person.
"Could you tell me what time it is?" she continued.
"No!"