They continued their way in silence, wading through the whirling snow.
"The Kingsholm with its infirmaries always strikes me as uncanny," remarked Falk, after a pause.
"Are you sentimental?" scoffed Sellén.
"Not at all, but this part of the town always makes that impression on me."
"Nonsense! It doesn't make any impression at all; you imagine it does. Here we are, and Borg's windows are lit up. Perhaps he's got some nice corpses to-night."
They were standing before the door of the institute. The huge building with its many dark windows glared at them as if it were inquiring what they wanted at that hour of the night. They passed the round flower bed, and entered the small building on the right.
At the very back of the room Borg was sitting alone in the lamplight, working at the mutilated body of a man who had hanged himself.
"Good evening," said Borg, laying aside his knife. "Would you like to see an old friend?"
He did not wait for the answer—which was not forthcoming—but lighted a lantern, took his overcoat and a bunch of keys.
"I didn't know that we had any friends here," said Sellén, desperately clinging to a flippant mood.