Suddenly he turns back. There’s something he wants to take to his room, and when he is back in the kitchen he meets Frank’s eyes. They are wide with perplexity.

‘What is it, Frank?’ he asks him abruptly.

Frank squirms.

‘Oh, it’s this…’

His father turns to Freda. ‘Freda,’ he begins, but pauses, seeing the same dilated eyes, full of fear.

‘Someone’s been here!’ she stammers. ‘While all of us were out. We can tell.’

A wild suspicion has struck her. She stares at her father.

The arrow polisher turns cold. What’s the matter with them? Someone has been here? Nonsense!

‘Have you been into your room?’ asks Frank.

‘Not yet. But I’m on my way there now. What is this nonsense?’

He opens the door and looks in. Everything is as it should be. He cannot deny that he breathes more easily.

‘Everything is as it should be, nothing out of place.’

‘But things have been moved,’ insists Freda. ‘And the outer door was locked.’

‘Well, in any case there’s nothing private or particularly valuable here, so anyone who feels like it can come and have a look,’ says the arrow polisher, pretending to be calm.

He goes into his room and sits at his desk.

As he does so he catches sight of a scrap of paper lying beside his writing things. There is unfamiliar handwriting on the paper. His heart gives a jump, he picks it up and reads: You are under observation. We are watching you.

How? Why? Under observation? He stares at the scrap of paper as if it is incomprehensible. And how has it been left here on his desk? Freda must be right after all; someone has been here.

I’m no longer left alone anywhere, he thinks in fear. They are making it impossible for a peaceable person to live here.

Who has done this? The thought occurs to him, as if quite naturally, that it must be Stig. Stig has written this himself. Stig who has scorned him.

He does not know Stig’s handwriting, but Stig has done this. Stig, whom I have longed to know. I saw that there was something out of the ordinary. Now he’s after me.

But why? I haven’t done anything to Stig except wish to be friends with him. Aren’t I allowed to have my honest job ? They could at least let respectable people alone! he thinks, and hardens his heart. Am I not to be allowed to earn daily bread for my children and myself? Am I to be driven to destitution?

The questions swell with anger and defiance. Let them try to drive me away! I haven’t done anything wrong. They’ve got nothing to chalk up against me.

And now he’s after me.

‘Father!’ says a voice behind him.

He starts. Frank is standing in the doorway. He has come in and seen his father sitting with this scrap of paper trembling in his hands.

‘What do you want?’ he asks curtly, hiding the dangerous bit of paper under the desk.