“Yes, sir,” he mumbled, more to himself than to them. Then, for the first time, he began to weep, copiously, without restraint. “Yes, sir . . . Yes, sir . . . I’m going to sign it . . . I’m going to sign it . . .”

The grey suit stood in front of him and he felt a smooth oblong object in his fingers; it was a fountain pen.

“Just sign your name and we’ll take you home . . .”

Yes, all he had to do was write his name and they would take him home, home to Rachel. . . . Home, he thought, with rising and hysterical hope. Elation seized him; truly, he felt nothing important could come from his signing his name to that splash of white that danced before his eyes. Yes, only good could come from it, something different from this torture. He held the fountain pen in shaking fingers as Lawson brought the paper close to his eyes. There was a book under the paper.

“See, boy,” the grey suit told him, “we’re putting this book under the paper so you can write. Now, steady yourself . . .”

“Yes, sir,” he breathed.

But he did not move; he just held the pen and looked at the paper through bleary, red-rimmed eyes. They shook him until his teeth rattled.

“Sign it!”

Oh, yes; he had to sign this paper, had to write his name, and then they would take him home. He put the pen to the paper and tried to write; a pain shot from his shoulder to his elbow and the line of ink trailed downward foolishly, in a wild scrawl.

“Here, let me help you,” the grey suit said soothingly.

“Yes, sir . . .”

Slowly, he scribbled his name, with the arms of the grey suit holding him, partly guiding him. When he was through, he still held the pen over the island of white, poised, as though willing and ready to write on and on. The grey suit took the pen and paper away.

“Can you read it?” Lawson asked.

“Yeah, I think it’ll do,” the District Attorney said, holding the paper at arm’s length and squinting at it.

“Look,” Murphy said. “Here’s his signature on his Selective Service Card. Do they look enough alike to get by?”

The District Attorney compared the two pieces of paper.

“Yeah,” the District Attorney said reflectively. “It’s good enough.”

“Well, we got this much,” Johnson said with a tired sigh, putting on his coat.

“What’re we going to do with ’im?” Murphy asked.

“Did you book ’im yet?” the District Attorney asked.

“Not yet,” Lawson said.

“Then you’d better book ’im and put ’im on ice,” the District Attorney said, handing the paper to Lawson. “Hang on to the confession for the inquest.”

“Okay,” Lawson said, folding the paper and putting it carefully into his pocket. He crossed over and got his cap and coat. “Say, maybe we ought to take ’im to the Peabody home . . .”