“How can one bind you, Joh Fredersen,” he murmured, “what is a word to you—or an oath.... Oh God ... you with your own laws. What promise would you keep if the breaking of it seemed expedient to you?”
“Don’t talk rubbish, Rotwang,” said Joh Fredersen. “I shall hold my tongue because I still need you. I know quite well that the people whom we need are our solitary tyrants. So, if you know, speak.”
Rotwang still hesitated; but gradually a smile took possession of his features—a good natured and mysterious smile, which was amusing itself at itself.
“You are standing on the entrance,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“To be taken literally, Joh Fredersen! You are standing on the entrance.”
“What entrance, Rotwang? You are wasting time that does not belong to you....”
The smile on Rotwang’s face deepened to serenity.
“Do you recollect, Joh Fredersen, how obstinately I refused, that time, to let the underground railway be run under my house?”
“Indeed I do! I still know the sum the detour cost me, also!”