“How did you know it was me, Martin?” asked the boy excitedly, all smiles.
Martin, chameleon-like, studied the dregs of his memory for similar situations or, he thought grimly, singular opportunities; for this was not an element to be faced, but one to be absorbed.
“We all have our characteristics, Carol,” he answered evenly.
“Do you like mine, Martin?” Carol’s plaintive tone softened the eager, beseeching import of his question.
Again Martin hesitated. He well knew that the middle path was not as the Romans had worked it out—a smooth highway, without deviation. He knew that the middle path must fluctuate with both extremes to deserve the term—which in this case, he observed to himself further with a certain cynical amusement, was between a bitch and a son-of-a-bitch. He took hold of the young man’s arm and spoke to him in a friendly fashion.
“Let’s go on up to my place, Carol,” he said.
On the dark stairs Carol followed close at his heels. Martin could feel little tugs at his coat as the young man hung on to him in a sort of childish panic and Martin had a distinct impression that Carol was groping for his hand. He could feel the boy’s breath on the back of his neck as they continued to climb; and when they reached the dark landing just outside Martin’s room, Carol was still hanging on to him feverishly. Martin fumbled for the keyhole, succeeded in finding it at last, opened the door and turned on a dim light. Carol followed him into the room, sighed with relief and closed the door quickly behind them.
He stood there, just inside, his hand still on the doorknob, gazing around him with wide eyes and obviously taking notes. There was a pallet on the floor in one corner, an old couch across from it and a writing desk in the center of the room. He could see a T-square, erasers and jumbled pieces of paper on the desk beside a miniature of Deane. He turned his head away suddenly at sight of the picture. In another corner of the room was a washbowl with a screen half around it. There was a general air of carelessness about the place which apparently made him nervous. Martin could see him straightening up things in his mind.
“It’s really more comfortable than it looks, Carol,” he said, trying to put his guest more at ease. “They keep the rooms warm and that bed sleeps better than it appears.” He unbuttoned his pea-jacket and hung it on a nail on the wall. “Take off your coat, Carol, won’t you?—and tell me what it’s all about. Two o’clock’s an odd time to go creeping after people. Why didn’t you call out?”