Waiting for the guard, he was drawn up like a prince. The light falling from above poured over his fair hair and his slim rigid shoulders. He was limned with light as he thrust the paper through the bars. Every slightest motion was exaggerated, theatrical, posed—or was it kingly? Inscrutable, wrapped in dignity or clothed in affectation and an actor’s sense of his own conspicuousness, he stood alone under the floodlights of a stage watched by hundreds of thousands, and he spoke his curtain line and it rang like a blow on iron. What was on his conscience would not matter.
