The doctor nodded his head slowly.
“You may speak, Gurther,” he said. “You are a man of intelligence; I would not presume to dictate to an artist.”
“Let me go for an hour, perhaps two hours, and I will return to you with a manner that is unique. Is it graciously permitted, Herr Doktor?”
“March!” said the doctor graciously, waving his hand to the door.
Nearly an hour and a half passed before the door opened and a gentleman came in who for even a moment even the doctor thought was a stranger. The face had an unearthly ivory pallor; the black brows, the faint shadows beneath the eyes that suggested a recent illness, the close-cropped black beard in which grey showed—these might not have deceived him. But the man was obviously the victim of some appalling accident of the past. One shoulder was hunched, the hand that held the stick was distorted out of shape, and as he moved, the clump of his club foot advertised his lameness.
“Sir, you desire to see me——?” began the doctor, and then stared open-mouthed. “It is not . . . !”
Gurther smiled.
“Herr Doktor, are you condescendingly pleased?”
“Colossal!” murmured Oberzohn, gazing in amazement. “Of all accomplishments this is supreme! Gurther, you are an artist. Some day we shall buy a theatre for you in Unter den Linden, and you shall thrill large audiences.”
“Herr Doktor, this is my own idea; this I have planned for many months. The boots I made myself; even the coat I altered”—he patted his deformed shoulder proudly.