window. It was difficult to open, he had to push the latch with both hands. Then there
came into the room through the great window a blend of fog and smoke, filling it with a
faint smell of burning soot. Some snowflakes fluttered in too. “An awful autumn,” came
the voice of the manufacturer from behind K.; returning from his colloquy with the
Assistant Manager, he had entered the room unobserved. K. nodded and shot an
apprehensive glance at the man’s attaché case, from which doubtless he would now extract
all his papers in order to inform K. how the negotiations had gone. But the manufacturer,
catching K.’s eye, merely tapped his attaché case without opening it and said: “You would
like to know how it has turned out? The final settlement is as good as in my pocket. A
charming fellow, your Assistant Manager, but dangerous to reckon with.” He laughed and
shook K. by the hand, trying to make him laugh too. But now K.’s suspicions seized on the fact that the manufacturer had not offered to show him the papers, and he found nothing to
laugh at. “Herr K.,” said the manufacturer, “you’re under the weather today. You look so
depressed.” “Yes,” said K., putting his hand to his brow, “a headache, family troubles.”
“Ah, yes,” said the manufacturer, who was a hasty man and could never listen quietly to
anybody, “we all have our troubles.” K. had involuntarily taken a step toward the door, as
if to show the manufacturer out, but the latter said: “Herr K., there’s another little matter I
should mention to you. I’m afraid this isn’t exactly the moment to bother you with it, but
the last two times I’ve been here I forgot to mention it. And if I put off mentioning it any
longer it will probably lose its point altogether. And that would be a pity, since my
information may have some real value for you.” Before K. had time to make any reply the
man stepped up close to him, tapped him with one finger on the chest, and said in a low
voice: “You’re involved in a case, aren’t you?” K. started back, crying out: “The Assistant
Manager told you that.” “Not at all,” said the manufacturer. “How should the Assistant
Manager know anything about it?” “How do you know about it?” asked K., pulling himself
together. “I pick up scraps of information about the Court now and then,” said the
manufacturer, “and that accounts for what I have to mention.” “So many people seem to be
connected with the Court!” said K. with a bowed head, as he led the manufacturer back to
the desk. They sat down as before and the manufacturer began: “Unfortunately it isn’t
much that I can tell you. But in these affairs one shouldn’t leave the smallest stone
unturned. Besides, I feel a strong desire to help you, no matter how modest the help. We
have always been good business friends till now, haven’t we? Well, then.” K. wanted to
excuse himself for his behavior that morning, but the manufacturer would not hear of it,
pushed his attaché case firmly under his arm to show that he was in a hurry to go, and
continued: “I heard of your case from a man called Titorelli. He’s a painter, Titorelli is only
his professional name, I don’t know at all what his real name is. For years he has been in
the habit of calling at my office from time to time, bringing little paintings for which I give
him a sort of alms — he’s almost a beggar. And they’re not bad pictures, moors and heaths
and so on. These deals — we have got into the way of them — pass off quite smoothly. But
there was a time when he turned up too frequently for my taste, I told him so, we fell into
conversation, I was curious to know how he could keep himself going entirely by his
painting, and I discovered to my astonishment that he really earned his living as a portrait
painter. He worked for the Court, he said. For what Court, I asked. And then he told me