“What’re we going to do now?” Johnson asked.

“I’m taking ’im to my place,” Lawson said. “We’ve got to wait until tonight. There’s nothing we can do now.”

They took him out of the car and led him into the vestibule of the building, then up three flights of steps and into the living room of a large apartment. Murphy and Johnson let go of his arms and he stood uncertainly in the middle of the floor.

“I’ll phone the captain that I’m on the trail of something. I’ll tell ’im you guys are with me,” Lawson said, pulling off his coat and cap. He was about to go out of the door, then turned and said: “Sit down, boy.”

“Yes, sir,” he said eagerly, but he did not sit. He felt that something would happen soon now.

Lawson left. Murphy and Johnson pulled off their coats and caps and guns and piled them on a chair at the far end of the room, then both of them sat on a sofa and stared at him. Lawson returned.

“It’s okay, boys,” he said, then walked over to him and stood biting his lips. “Well, boy, looks like you’re in for it, don’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, looking vaguely around the room, as though annoyed at something.

“You’ve been gone for three days,” Lawson said. “Now, look here, forget all of those wild tales you’ve been telling and give us the truth. Where did you hide during that time? Who sent you back to us?”

“Nobody, mister. I just went underground, just like I told you,” he said. “It started raining and I went down there to get out of the rain . . .”

“So you went down into the sewer just to get out of the rain, hunh?” Murphy asked.

The room rocked with laughter.

“Yes, sir. But after I got down there, I wasn’t running anymore.”

The policemen shook their heads. Lawson went to a cabinet and took out a bottle of whiskey; he set glasses for Murphy and Johnson. All three of them drank.

“He’s nuts,” Johnson said. “Come on, Lawson. Let’s wash the thing up and take ’im to the psycho.”

“I don’t know,” Lawson said meditatively. “Suppose this Mr. Wooten learns he’s there? We can’t take that chance . . .”

He felt that he was not explaining himself sufficiently; he sat still, trying to muster all of the symbols that lay sprawling in him. The symbols stood out sharp and clear in his mind, but he could not make them have the meaning for others that he felt they had for him. He felt so helpless that he began to cry.

“He’s nuts,” Johnson said. “All nuts weep like that.”

Murphy crossed the room hurriedly with the bottle of whiskey in one hand and slapped him across the face with the other.

“Stop that damn raving!”

“No, sir! No, sir! I’m not raving,” he sobbed. “I just want to tell you . . .” His voice died and he stared stonily. He rose to his feet again, feeling now that he could speak and tell all, yet not knowing words to convey what he felt. A wild sense of excitement flooded his body and his hands lifted themselves in midair, trembling. “Yes, sir. I’m guilty . . . The people in the church know it, but they sing praises for it. Look, you-all, please let me show you . . .” He grew terribly agitated; his lips trembled. He ran to Murphy and grabbed his arm, making him spill whiskey on his shirt. “Come on, I’ll show you,” he spoke huskily, his eyes seeming to strain in their sockets. “I’ll take you to the room where the money is! It’s underground . . .”