J. S. MACHAR
I met nobody. The streets were full of bustle, trams rattled, carriages, motor-cars drove to and fro,—my freedom, my life, farewell.
We reached the well-known building. But we entered by a different door. Instead of a porter, a sergeant-major stood there. The detective showed him the paper. He let us in. Sentries with bayonets, grey walls, everything grey and drab.
In the chief Superintendent's office, the detective handed me over. A grumpy sergeant-major took the papers from him, drew up an acknowledgment of receipt, then the superintendent called upon me to empty my pocket-book, watch, pencil,—the money was counted out and the amount noted in the report. I signed.
An old sergeant with a bundle of keys in his belt led me away. He opened the barred door guarded by defence-corps men with bayonets, he led me through grey and gloomy passages and finally stopped at door number 60.
He opened. "Mr. Dušek, a new gentleman."
Editor Dušek stood in the doorway and held out both his hands towards me. "I have been expecting your for some time."
"Thank you."
VII.
My first impression of the interior of this apartment was, of a dirty third class waiting room of some provincial railway station. It was full of people; they were sitting, standing, walking about, smoking, some were impatient, some were bored, some eyed the floor resignedly,—the train was late but nobody knew how many hours, days, weeks, months, and time, accursed time, never lags so sluggishly as when a man is waiting.
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