A cold rain was falling. The banker reached the lodge and called the watchman twice, but no one answered. Then he stepped through the door himself. The little room was dark. He struck a match. At the table a man unlike an ordinary human being sat motionless. He was a skeleton with the skin drawn tight over his bones, with long curls like a woman's, and a shaggy beard. His face was yellow, his cheeks hollow. On the table before his bowed head lay a sheet of paper, covered with writing. The banker took it and read: "Tomorrow at twelve I shall be free. But before I leave, I must say a few words to you. For fifteen years I have studied the life of this earth in your books. I have seen blue skies, mountains, and seas; I have loved women; I have sung songs in the forests. Your books gave me wisdom. And I despise it all. I despise your books, I despise all the blessings of the world, and wisdom too. Everything is worthless and false, like a mirage. You are mad, and going the wrong way. To prove to you how I despise all that you live by, I give up the two million I once dreamed of as paradise. I shall leave here five hours before the appointed time, and so break the agreement." When he had read this, the banker kissed the strange man on the head, and went out weeping. At no other time, not even after terrible losses, had he felt such contempt for himself. The next morning the watchman ran in to say that the man had been seen climbing out of the window and going away. The banker went to the lodge and made sure he was gone. Then he took the letter, and to avoid unnecessary talk, locked it away in his safe.