A quotation from Browning came into his head.
“God’s in His heaven. All’s right with the world.”
He had always been fond of that quotation.
Only there were times, very often, when he had felt it wasn’t true….
He trotted along the street smiling to himself until he came to the Black Swan where he was staying.
He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, a stuffy little room on the second floor, giving over a paved inner court and garage.
As he entered the room his smile faded suddenly. There was a stain on his sleeve near the cuff. He touched it tentatively—wet and red—blood….
His hand dipped into his pocket and brought out something—a long slender knife. The blade of that, too, was sticky and red….
Mr. Cust sat there a long time.
Once his eyes shot round the room like those of a hunted animal.
His tongue passed feverishly over his lips….
“It isn’t my fault,” said Mr. Cust.
He sounded as though he were arguing with somebody—a schoolboy pleading to his headmaster.
He passed his tongue over his lips again….
Again, tentatively, he felt his coat sleeve.
His eyes crossed the room to the wash-basin.
A minute later he was pouring out water from the old-fashioned jug into the basin. Removing his coat, he rinsed the sleeve, carefully squeezing it out….
Ugh! The water was red now….
A tap on the door.
He stood there frozen into immobility—staring.
The door opened. A plump young woman—jug in hand.
“Oh, excuse me, sir. Your hot water, sir.”
He managed to speak then.
“Thank you…I’ve washed in cold….”
Why had he said that? Immediately her eyes went to the basin.
He said frenziedly: “I—I’ve cut my hand….”
There was a pause—yes, surely a very long pause—before she said: “Yes, sir.”
She went out, shutting the door.
Mr. Cust stood as though turned to stone.
He listened.