It has been set in motion, it writes.

Nothing else.

It has been set in motion, it scratches stubbornly.

He says: But I only did what was right. What everyone would do in my place. Everyone tries to defend himself.

It has been set in motion, it scratches on the desk, as if he has no chance of being listened to, as if he has been condemned for a long time.

He realizes this in all its horror: No one will listen. I might as well give up.

So he is sitting there.

Perhaps it will stop when I’ve had a complete rest. It’s only because of the tension, and the shock they gave me with that note of theirs. Yes, but I’m going to stay put in my chair.

He does not know how long he has been sitting there. He has an idea that he ought to have left to go out into the house, to his work with the glistening arrows. The time came long ago, and it sits in his body like everything else that is customary. But then he remembers that he’s not going to do it any more. He doesn’t need to. He has money that will last for a long time, and he will make Frank and Freda happy by not polishing arrows, and by bringing them presents and good things to eat.

So that’s why he can just stay sitting here.

But he knows that the real reason is that he cannot move. This incomprehensible thing is holding him fast in his chair. The dust on the surface of the desk is untouched and unaltered, but he looks at it with staring eyes, for something is writing in the dust.

It is writing on the desk, and it is writing inside him wherever there is a clear space left. Now it has been set in motion, it is stating calmly and inflexibly.

Does this mean that it is all over?

He looks about him.

Over? What is over?

It has been set in motion, comes the reply in the dust on the desk-top.

A short while ago someone pushed the door ajar and peeped in: his daughter Freda, with the questioning eyes. He started when he caught sight of her narrow face, or rather a thin strip of it, making it seem even narrower and thinner.

She came to see whether there was anything the matter with him again. But she didn’t remind him about the time or anything. Just closed the door again without a word. Perhaps she was pleased that he really was neglecting the work that she and Frank dislike so much.

That was a good while ago, and what does it matter anyway? More important things are happening at the moment. He looks at the desk where the invisible finger starts scratching and writing as soon as he starts listening. It makes his heart pound up in his neck. Surely it must stop writing soon? But as soon as he starts listening it is there. And he is quite unable to stop listening. He pinches himself in the arm and tells himself that it is all nonsense and imagination, but it does not stop the finger writing; it continues to write slowly and quietly.