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There
was
something
sardonic
,
almost
sinister
,
in
its
appearance
of
having
deliberately
“
made
up
”
for
its
anonymous
part
,
all
in
noncommittal
drabs
and
browns
,
with
a
carpet
and
paper
that
nobody
would
remember
,
and
chairs
and
tables
as
impersonal
as
railway
porters
.
Darrow
picked
up
the
time
-
table
and
tossed
it
on
to
the
table
.
Then
he
rose
to
his
feet
,
lit
a
cigar
and
went
to
the
window
.
Through
the
rain
he
could
just
discover
the
face
of
a
clock
in
a
tall
building
beyond
the
railway
roofs
.
He
pulled
out
his
watch
,
compared
the
two
time
-
pieces
,
and
started
the
hands
of
his
with
such
a
rush
that
they
flew
past
the
hour
and
he
had
to
make
them
repeat
the
circuit
more
deliberately
.
He
felt
a
quite
disproportionate
irritation
at
the
trifling
blunder
.
When
he
had
corrected
it
he
went
back
to
his
chair
and
threw
himself
down
,
leaning
back
his
head
against
his
hands
.
Presently
his
cigar
went
out
,
and
he
got
up
,
hunted
for
the
matches
,
lit
it
again
and
returned
to
his
seat
.
The
room
was
getting
on
his
nerves
.
During
the
first
few
days
,
while
the
skies
were
clear
,
he
had
not
noticed
it
,
or
had
felt
for
it
only
the
contemptuous
indifference
of
the
traveller
toward
a
provisional
shelter
.
But
now
that
he
was
leaving
it
,
was
looking
at
it
for
the
last
time
,
it
seemed
to
have
taken
complete
possession
of
his
mind
,
to
be
soaking
itself
into
him
like
an
ugly
indelible
blot
.
Every
detail
pressed
itself
on
his
notice
with
the
familiarity
of
an
accidental
confidant
:
whichever
way
he
turned
,
he
felt
the
nudge
of
a
transient
intimacy
.
.
.
The
one
fixed
point
in
his
immediate
future
was
that
his
leave
was
over
and
that
he
must
be
back
at
his
post
in
London
the
next
morning
.
Within
twenty
-
four
hours
he
would
again
be
in
a
daylight
world
of
recognized
activities
,
himself
a
busy
,
responsible
,
relatively
necessary
factor
in
the
big
whirring
social
and
official
machine
.
That
fixed
obligation
was
the
fact
he
could
think
of
with
the
least
discomfort
,
yet
for
some
unaccountable
reason
it
was
the
one
on
which
he
found
it
most
difficult
to
fix
his
thoughts
.
Whenever
he
did
so
,
the
room
jerked
him
back
into
the
circle
of
its
insistent
associations
.
It
was
extraordinary
with
what
a
microscopic
minuteness
of
loathing
he
hated
it
all
:
the
grimy
carpet
and
wallpaper
,
the
black
marble
mantel
-
piece
,
the
clock
with
a
gilt
allegory
under
a
dusty
bell
,
the
high
-
bolstered
brown
-
counterpaned
bed
,
the
framed
card
of
printed
rules
under
the
electric
light
switch
,
and
the
door
of
communication
with
the
next
room
.
He
hated
the
door
most
of
all
.
.
.
At
the
outset
,
he
had
felt
no
special
sense
of
responsibility
.
He
was
satisfied
that
he
had
struck
the
right
note
,
and
convinced
of
his
power
of
sustaining
it
.
The
whole
incident
had
somehow
seemed
,
in
spite
of
its
vulgar
setting
and
its
inevitable
prosaic
propinquities
,
to
be
enacting
itself
in
some
unmapped
region
outside
the
pale
of
the
usual
.
It
was
not
like
anything
that
had
ever
happened
to
him
before
,
or
in
which
he
had
ever
pictured
himself
as
likely
to
be
involved
;
but
that
,
at
first
,
had
seemed
no
argument
against
his
fitness
to
deal
with
it
.
Perhaps
but
for
the
three
days
’
rain
he
might
have
got
away
without
a
doubt
as
to
his
adequacy
.
The
rain
had
made
all
the
difference
.
It
had
thrown
the
whole
picture
out
of
perspective
,
blotted
out
the
mystery
of
the
remoter
planes
and
the
enchantment
of
the
middle
distance
,
and
thrust
into
prominence
every
commonplace
fact
of
the
foreground
.
It
was
the
kind
of
situation
that
was
not
helped
by
being
thought
over
;
and
by
the
perversity
of
circumstance
he
had
been
forced
into
the
unwilling
contemplation
of
its
every
aspect
.
.
.
His
cigar
had
gone
out
again
,
and
he
threw
it
into
the
fire
and
vaguely
meditated
getting
up
to
find
another
.
But
the
mere
act
of
leaving
his
chair
seemed
to
call
for
a
greater
exertion
of
the
will
than
he
was
capable
of
,
and
he
leaned
his
head
back
with
closed
eyes
and
listened
to
the
drumming
of
the
rain
.
A
different
noise
aroused
him
.
It
was
the
opening
and
closing
of
the
door
leading
from
the
corridor
into
the
adjoining
room
.
He
sat
motionless
,
without
opening
his
eyes
;
but
now
another
sight
forced
itself
under
his
lowered
lids
.
It
was
the
precise
photographic
picture
of
that
other
room
.
Everything
in
it
rose
before
him
and
pressed
itself
upon
his
vision
with
the
same
acuity
of
distinctness
as
the
objects
surrounding
him
.
A
step
sounded
on
the
floor
,
and
he
knew
which
way
the
step
was
directed
,
what
pieces
of
furniture
it
had
to
skirt
,
where
it
would
probably
pause
,
and
what
was
likely
to
arrest
it
.
He
heard
another
sound
,
and
recognized
it
as
that
of
a
wet
umbrella
placed
in
the
black
marble
jamb
of
the
chimney
-
piece
,
against
the
hearth
.
He
caught
the
creak
of
a
hinge
,
and
instantly
differentiated
it
as
that
of
the
wardrobe
against
the
opposite
wall
.
Then
he
heard
the
mouse
-
like
squeal
of
a
reluctant
drawer
,
and
knew
it
was
the
upper
one
in
the
chest
of
drawers
beside
the
bed
:
the
clatter
which
followed
was
caused
by
the
mahogany
toilet
-
glass
jumping
on
its
loosened
pivots
.
.
.
The
step
crossed
the
floor
again
.
It
was
strange
how
much
better
he
knew
it
than
the
person
to
whom
it
belonged
!
Now
it
was
drawing
near
the
door
of
communication
between
the
two
rooms
.
He
opened
his
eyes
and
looked
.
The
step
had
ceased
and
for
a
moment
there
was
silence
.
Then
he
heard
a
low
knock
.
He
made
no
response
,
and
after
an
interval
he
saw
that
the
door
handle
was
being
tentatively
turned
.
He
closed
his
eyes
once
more
.
.
.
