'Robert Holt.'

'What are you?'

'A clerk.'

'You look as if you were a clerk.' There was a flame of scorn in
his voice which scorched me even then. 'What sort of a clerk are
you?'

'I am out of a situation.'

'You look as if you were out of a situation.' Again the scorn.
'Are you the sort of clerk who is always out of a situation? You
are a thief.'

'I am not a thief.'

'Do clerks come through the window?' I was still,--he putting no
constraint on me to speak. 'Why did you come through the window?'

'Because it was open.'

'So!--Do you always come through a window which is open?'

'No.'

'Then why through this?'

'Because I was wet--and cold--and hungry--and tired.'