“Send ’im to the psycho,” one of the policemen said with a wry smile.

“You’re nuts, ain’t you, boy?” one policeman asked, placing a friendly arm about his shoulders.

He smiled at them all.

“Maybe he’s a Fifth Columnist!” a policeman shouted.

There was laughter and, despite his anxiety, he joined in. But the laughter went on so long that it irked him and his face grew solemn.

“I got to find those men,” he mumbled in mild protest.

“Did they wear white uniforms?” one asked.

He stared with wide eyes, then backed away and pointed his finger at them, as though making a great discovery.

“They were men like you-all,” he exclaimed.

“We’re policemen. This is a police station. Now, which one of these policemen do you want to see?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I know ’em,” he said, as though they had told him that he would not know them if he saw them. “They picked me up . . .”

“Say, boy, what you been drinking?”

“I got some water in the basement,” he said simply.

An elderly, white-haired policeman came to him and caught hold of his arm.

“Look, son. Try and think. Where did those men pick you up?”

He knitted his brows in an effort to remember. Had he been back in the labyrinth of the sewers, he could have easily remembered where they had picked him up; but now he was blank inside. The policemen stood before him demanding logical answers, and he could no longer think with his mind; he thought with his feelings and no words came.

“Why did they pick you up?” one of the men asked.

“I was guilty,” he stammered. “No, sir. Not then, I wasn’t. I mean, mister . . .”

“Aw, come on. Talk sense! Now, where did they pick you up?”

He felt challenged and a sense of duty toward himself made him forget the policemen, and he began reconstructing the events of the past in reverse: He had been standing in that vestibule; and, yes, he had just gone into the vestibule to get out of the rain; and he had been walking along the street when it had begun raining; yes, he had just leaped out of that hospital window to escape those men who had brought him to the police station and beat him and made him sign a paper and he had said: Please, get in touch with Mrs. Wooten. . . .

“Oh, yes, sir,” he said brightly, smiling, happy that he had recalled it. “I was coming from Mrs. Wooten’s . . .”

“Where does she live?”

“Next door to Mrs. Peabody, that place where them folks was . . .”

“That’s Lawson’s beat,” one of the policemen said.

“Where’s Lawson?” the elderly man asked.

“Upstairs in the swing-room,” someone answered.

“Take ’im up, Sam, and see,” a policeman said.

“Okay. Come on, son,” the elderly man said.

The old man took hold of his arm, led him up a flight of stairs, down a hallway, and opened a door.