“Oh, all right. I don’t think he’ll react much,” the District Attorney said.

“Say, maybe we ought to take ’im to see his wife,” Johnson put in eagerly.

“Yeah,” Lawson agreed. “Nobody can say we weren’t good to ’im if we take ’im back to his wife for a few minutes, eh?”

“He won’t be able to sit in that chair,” the District Attorney said. “You’d better put ’im on the floor.”

The chair was jerked from under him and again he lay prone with closed eyes. He heard footsteps going away and then he could hear no more. He drifted into a faraway land of blinding sunshine, filled with huge white-hot rocks. He was tramping with bare feet over burning sand, sweating profusely, winding his way among a vast stretch of white-hot rocks. His throat was constricted from thirst, but there was no water, only glaring sunshine and sizzling sand. He noticed that each of the huge white-hot rocks had a white piece of paper tied to it and there was a black fountain pen in his right hand. From glowing rock to glowing rock he went and signed his name to each tag of white paper, signed his name carefully and slowly, whispering: “Yes, sir . . . Yes, sir . . .”

III

When he opened his eyes, he saw the three policemen looming above him. A bitter taste clogged his mouth.

“He’s pooped out,” one said.

“Funny, he could hardly sign his name on that confession, but when we booked ’im, he wrote all right, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. They do crazy things when you sweat ’im.”

“How you reckon he is?”

“Oh, he’s all right.”

Propped on his feet between two of the policemen, he slithered to the door, his head lolling, his arms dangling askew. They led him into the hallway and then down steps. When he was in the driveway of the police station, the fresh air and sunshine stimulated him; but before he could get his bearings, he was pushed into the rear seat of the car. Lawson got behind the steering wheel; Murphy and Johnson sat at either side of him. The motor roared and the car backed into the street, turned, and went forward over gleaming trolley tracks.

Lingering pains ached in his body. His nostrils were full of the odor of stale sweat on his clothes. Full consciousness returned to him and he tensed his muscles against an array of invisible dangers, asking himself: Where they taking me? I want to go home. . . .

“Mister, can’t I go home now?” he asked in a childlike plaintive whine.

“You’ll go home soon enough,” Lawson said.

Vaguely, he remembered that he had signed his name to a paper, but that did not seem important. If only he could get away from these policemen, everything would be all right. As the car zoomed on, he looked out at the streets and discovered that he was nearing Mrs. Wooten’s. Maybe they had decided to ask Mrs. Wooten who he was? Good! Everything’s going to be all right, he told himself. Yes, there was Mrs. Wooten’s big white house! He was almost at the end of this nightmare! Then his heart sank as he recalled that Mrs. Wooten was not at home. . . . Why had he not thought of that before? What was wrong with him? When Mrs. Wooten had paid him off, she had told him that she and Mr. Wooten were leaving for the country for the weekend. So nothing would be settled here after all; he might as well tell the policemen that. Just as he leaned forward to speak, the car pulled to a stop in front of the Peabodys’ home.