MR. Y. How? How could you see it?

MR. X, Oh, with a little practice. It is an art, like many others.
But don't let us talk of it any more. [He looks at his watch,
arranges a document on the table, dips a pen in the ink-well, and
hands it to MR. Y.] I must be thinking of my tangled affairs.
Won't you please witness my signature on this note here? I am
going to turn it in to the bank at Malmo tomorrow, when I go to
the city with you.

MR. Y. I am not going by way of Malmo.

MR. X. Oh, you are not?

MR. Y. No.

MR. X. But that need not prevent you from witnessing my signature.

MR. Y. N-no!--I never write my name on papers of that kind--

MR. X.--any longer! This is the fifth time you have refused to
write your own name. The first time nothing more serious was
involved than the receipt for a registered letter. Then I began to
watch you. And since then I have noticed that you have a morbid
fear of a pen filled with ink. You have not written a single
letter since you came here--only a post-card, and that you wrote
with a blue pencil. You understand now that I have figured out the
exact nature of your slip? Furthermore! This is something like the
seventh time you have refused to come with me to Malmo, which