But he is doing it somewhat absent-mindedly, thinking about those three taps on the door. He can expect them at any time. Soon there will be a rap on the door and he will be called out.

I won’t go, he thinks.

This is his new idea, which he put into operation a short time ago. The old one was not so decisive, and for that reason not so reassuring – and he must have reassurance if he is to be able to concentrate on his work. Counting the perforations on stamps is not for jittery folk, and he has put all his talents into the job of measuring perforations, and inspecting false and genuine watermarks, and writing esoteric little articles about it in the trade journals.

If only I could be left in peace, he thinks. Why can’t they stop this senseless struggling and quarrelling so a man can have some peace and quiet to work in!

He feels hungry, opens the hiding-place with the table set ready, and helps himself to food. But he chews it absent-mindedly. One can never be sure when those three taps may come, and what is he to do in that case?

I won’t, he says. Let everyone look after his interests in his own way. If everyone were like me, this would be a contented house instead of the hell it is now. So why shouldn’t I behave according to my nature and follow my own habits? Behave in the way I think is right?

I shan’t go out if they do knock, he thinks. Every time he eats and every time he sits down at his desk and every time he goes to bed he becomes more certain of this. What would become of them all if no one kept hold of his senses? he thinks. If everyone rushed out and let themselves be killed, what would be left?

The truth lies stacked up high around him. He does not even have to bend if he needs anything. The stack is taller than his eyes and his ears. There has never been so much truth in the world as there is here.

He is listening to the faint cracking of the house. The sound bothers him, he wishes he could not hear it. These walls are too thin, it’s all been built in a slovenly fashion. It’s no place to live for someone who wants to concentrate on his work and make a good job of it.

I must find myself a safer place to live, he thinks every now and again. Then he dreams of thick walls that never let in a quiver from outside. Yet he sometimes senses a crumbling within his own consciousness and is perplexed. Is it there too?

Of course it is, since I can never shut it out! he is on the point of shouting, and he jumps to his feet in anger and slaps the stamp album on the desk so that the loose scraps of paper take off like a flock of birds from a plateau, and flutter down again on to the floor.