“Korn?” He was looking ahead, far ahead. “Korn—why, Korn is a pickpocket.”
There were no more words. They went down the hall of their home: each entered his room.
Tom closed the door.... It was very white and very quiet and clean. He sat on his bed. Resting his chin in his hands, he went on looking ahead, looking far ahead. Seeing nothing. The alarm-clock was obtrusive with its tick-tack-tick. The window was open from the top. A faint breeze made the white mesh curtains stir. Tom felt a soiled self sitting on the bed, felt soiled feet on the tidied floor. Tom felt a desecration.
He was up. He was almost like a somnambulist. He was in David’s room. They were looking at each other.
“I have done nothing. You fool, acting as if you were guilty!” he said to himself.
“Yes, Tom?” David did not understand the stillness.
Tom was in conflict. “Are you sure—are you sure you are not guilty?” Words cried to be spoken. He had none.
“Don’t be shocked, Davie,” he spoke at last. “One must meet all sorts——”
“I am not shocked. But it is strange. He seemed so intelligent a man.”
Tom pounced, with passion of relief.