He turned and retraced his steps southward, and finally went across town, drawn as by a magnet to his own home.
Home! What a mockery the word was!
It was two o'clock in the morning now; he had been walking or sitting on a Drive bench for hours.
He was not conscious of fatigue, he only wanted to see his old home and then go away forever. He didn't plan his future. He was sure he could make a living easily enough, he felt he could build up a new life for himself over a new name. But oh, how he longed for the old life!
He stood in front of the house and stared at it.
He walked round and round the block it was on, pausing each time he passed the front door, and walking on, if there chanced to be a passer-by.
At last, he concluded to give up the painful pleasure of gazing at the closed windows and go back to Brooklyn.
His gaze traveled over the windows at the various rooms,—how well he knew what they all were,—and at last he found himself looking at the front door. How often he had let himself in with his latchkey.
Involuntarily his hand went to his pocket, where that latchkey even now was,—and hardly knowing what he was doing, he had the key in his hand and was mounting the steps of his old home.
Still as one in a daze, and with no intention of making his presence known, but with an uncontrollable desire to see for the last time those dear rooms, he silently fitted the key into place.