The Man On Putney Hill

           IspentthatnightintheinnthatstandsatthetopofPutneyHill,sleepinginamadebedforthefirsttimesincemyflighttoLeatherhead. IwillnottelltheneedlesstroubleIhadbreakingintothathouse—afterwardsIfoundthefrontdoorwasonthelatch—norhowIransackedeveryroomforfood,untiljustonthevergeofdespair,inwhatseemedtometobeaservant’sbedroom,Ifoundarat-gnawedcrustandtwotinsofpineapple. Theplacehadbeenalreadysearchedandemptied. InthebarIafterwardsfoundsomebiscuitsandsandwichesthathadbeenoverlooked. ThelatterIcouldnoteat,theyweretoorotten,buttheformernotonlystayedmyhunger,butfilledmypockets. Ilitnolamps,fearingsomeMartianmightcomebeatingthatpartofLondonforfoodinthenight. BeforeIwenttobedIhadanintervalofrestlessness,andprowledfromwindowtowindow,peeringoutforsomesignofthesemonsters. Isleptlittle. AsIlayinbedIfoundmyselfthinkingconsecutively—athingIdonotremembertohavedonesincemylastargumentwiththecurate. Duringalltheinterveningtimemymentalconditionhadbeenahurryingsuccessionofvagueemotionalstatesorasortofstupidreceptivity. Butinthenightmybrain,reinforced,Isuppose,bythefoodIhadeaten,grewclearagain,andIthought. 

           Threethingsstruggledforpossessionofmymind: thekillingofthecurate,thewhereaboutsoftheMartians,andthepossiblefateofmywife. Theformergavemenosensationofhorrororremorsetorecall;Isawitsimplyasathingdone,amemoryinfinitelydisagreeablebutquitewithoutthequalityofremorse. IsawmyselfthenasIseemyselfnow,drivenstepbysteptowardsthathastyblow,thecreatureofasequenceofaccidentsleadinginevitablytothat. Ifeltnocondemnation;yetthememory,static,unprogressive,hauntedme.