He stood, a hand on the fastenings, gazing about him.
He was in the room which his father had always used as an office.

As he peered about in the gray dusk that had fallen, distinguishing familiar articles of furniture--a roll-top desk, several chairs, a sofa, some cheap prints on the wall--a nameless emotion smote him and his face paled a little, his jaws locked, his hands clenched.

For again the army of memories was passing in review.
For a long time he stood at the door.

Then he left it and walked to the desk, placing a hand on its top and hesitating.

Doubtless his father was in another part of the house, possibly eating supper.