I waited for a moment or two.
"What is it?"
"That man you saw trailing me around the square, for one thing."
"Even that isn't altogether an excuse," I maintained.
"But it's what he stands for," protested my visitor. He sat staring into the fire for a minute or two. I sat beside him, again conscious of some inarticulate and evasive companionship.
"How did it begin?" I finally asked.
He took a deep breath. Then he closed his eyes. And when he spoke he did so without opening them.
"I don't think I could explain," was his listless answer.
"Make a try at it," I urged. "Let's ventilate the thing, canalize it. Let's throw a little light and order into it."
He moved his head up and down, slowly, as though he had some vague comprehension of the psychology of confession, some knowledge of the advantages of "exteriorating" secret offenses. Then he sat very still and tense.