Max had roused at the sound of Le Moyne's voice, not to suspicion, of course, but to memory. Without any apparent reason, he was back in Berlin, tramping the country roads, and beside him—
“Wonderful night!”
“Great,” he replied. “The mind's a curious thing, isn't it. In the instant since Miss Page went through that window I've been to Berlin and back! Will you have a cigarette?”
“Thanks; I have my pipe here.”
K. struck a match with his steady hands. Now that the thing had come, he was glad to face it. In the flare, his quiet profile glowed against the night. Then he flung the match over the rail.
“Perhaps my voice took you back to Berlin.”
Max stared; then he rose. Blackness had descended on them again, except for the dull glow of K.'s old pipe.
“For God's sake!”
“Sh! The neighbors next door have a bad habit of sitting just inside the curtains.”
“But—you!”