Roy—Roy—he would get over the shock of death, I mused. Nature provides for that. But the shock of disgrace.... That was a pretty good story, too—stopping just short of.... Yes, it was a pretty good story. And I would give it to Roy and say, “Here’s a good turn I have turned out for you.” And then....
Whew! How the rain beat against the window! The rattling of the loose frame interrupted my reverie so that I got up and stretched myself and went over and forced a folded scrap of paper between it and the jamb.
“I’ll be thankful,” I half yawned as I resumed my seat before the fire, “if this thing is over soon.” I don’t know whether I was thinking of the storm or the war.
But the rattling did not cease. Oh, it was the door and not the window. So I got up again—then stood stark still, feeling a tremor all over me. Not an inch could I move, only stand there, every nerve on edge, listening. If I had been certain of a tapping on that door I would have experienced no suspense, for suspense is tense uncertainty, and I knew not whether it was a tapping or not.
I thought it was not, and to make sure I went over, unbarred the heavy door and threw it open.
Never while I live shall I forget that sight. He stood there, dripping, trembling; and if there had ever been a touch of the ridiculous in his appearance in that tattered, ill-fitting German coat, there was nothing but pathos in it now; his clothes hung in shining wetness to his form so that I saw with horror how gaunt and emaciated he was. He wore no hat and his blonde hair was streaking down over his face and he gazed out from between those drooping strands with such a pitiful look of appeal as I had never seen before.
HE STOOD THERE, DRIPPING, TREMBLING.
“Yes,” I said roughly, “come in—I’m glad you’ve come. No, don’t touch me, but sit there by the fire—you’re welcome. I was to blame. I’m sorry.” It was odd, perhaps, but even in my relief at seeing him and giving him shelter, a little of my anger and resentment returned so that I was at an effort to repress it. “Dennheimer is worse than you, for he seduced you. Sit down—you needn’t be afraid.”
I seated myself in the great chair before the fire, but he remained standing with one hand upon its massive back. His sleeve was tight and clinging, like a woman’s, which gave him a grotesque look and somehow went to my heart. So standing, he spoke with a painful effort at composure as if his few words had been contemplated and rehearsed. As he spoke, I thought I saw in his eyes a kind of forced calmness as if he had at last groped his way to some peg to hang his wits on.