A few days later, a stranger visited me in my new office. «You are responsible for the man you left in your last office,» he said. The owner of the building has given me a court order which says you must take him away. I went back to my old office and found Bartleby sitting on the empty floor. «Bartleby, will you come home with me and stay there until we decide what you will do?» He answered softly, «No, I do not want to make any changes.» I answered nothing more. I fled. When I entered my office later, I found a message for me. Bartleby had been taken to prison. I found him there, and when he saw me he said: «I know you, and I have nothing to say to you.» Days passed, and I went to see Bartleby again. I was told he was sleeping in the prison yard outside. The thin Bartleby was lying on the cold stones. His eyes were open. He seemed to be in a deep sleep. «Won't he eat today, either, or does he live without eating?» the guard asked. «Lives without eating,» I answered, and closed his eyes. One little story came to me some days after Bartleby died. I learned he had worked for many years in the post office. He was in a special office that opened all the nation's letters that never reach the person they were written to. It is called the dead letter office. Ah, Bartleby! Ah, humanity!