His imagination rejected the facts and refused to work on them. The scene in the Cave had left an impression upon his retina, like that of the cinema—just a plain flat impression containing no material for his imagination. And yet he knew that he was deeply engaged in whatever was happening.
With his chin in his hands he leaned out of his window and watched the dawn paint the eastern sky and the day wipe out the colours. Doors were opened in the street. Windows were lit with the glow of the fires, and the day’s activity had begun, but he had no share in it, for he knew that this day was like no other. For him it was a day lost in impenetrable shadow, and he could not tell what should take him out of it. And still he expected Logan would come.
He heard Rosa get up and go downstairs and light the fire and bawl up to Issy to jump out of his bed, filthy snoring sluggard that he was. He heard the voices of the children and the baby yelling. . . . How indecent, how abominable it was to cram so many people into one small house!
At the usual time he went over to his mother’s kitchen for breakfast, and gulped down his tea, but made no attempt to eat. Golda looked at him reproachfully, but said nothing, for she saw that he was in some deep trouble.
After breakfast, as usual, he went for his walk down through Whitechapel almost as far as Bow Church and back.
In his studio when he returned he found a policeman, who said:—
“Mr. Mendel Kühler?”
“Yes.”
The policeman handed him a letter from Logan who had scrawled:—
“I believe in you to the end.”