see...."

It was rather difficult to speak distinctly; my tongue got in the way.
But I strove to impress the fool with the idea that I had affairs that
must be attended to--that I had private affairs.

"You aren't fit. Let me...."

I pushed him roughly aside--what business was it of his? I slunk hastily
out of the room. The others remained. I knew what they were going to
do--to talk things over, to gabble about "the man who...."

It was treacherous walking, that tessellated pavement in the hall.
Someone said: "Hullo, Granger," as I passed. I took no notice.

Where did I wish to go to? There was no one who could minister to me;
the whole world had resolved itself into a vast solitary city of closed
doors. I had no friend--no one. But I must go somewhere, must hide
somewhere, must speak to someone. I mumbled the address of Fox to a
cabman. Some idea of expiation must have been in my mind; some idea of
seeing the thing through, mingled with that necessity for talking to
someone--anyone.

I was afraid too; not of Fox's rage; not even of anything that he could
do--but of the sight of his despair. He had become a tragic figure.

I reached his flat and I had said: "It is I," and again, "It is I," and
he had not stirred. He was lying on the sofa under a rug, motionless as
a corpse. I had paced up and down the room. I remember that the pile of
the carpet was so long that it was impossible to walk upon it easily.