The Wrong House
BEFORE THE INCIDENT, Horatio Bloom had never been judged the sort of man who would cheat on his wife. People used to say they set their clocks by his comings and goings. Indeed, so punctilious was he that he considered it devil-may-care to occasionally wear loafers, a turtleneck sweater, and a corduroy jacket with suede patches at the elbows that gave him a downright professorial look. (Normally, his garb comprised plain white shirt, unembellished grey tie, and grey two-piece suit in pin-stripe for summer or three-piece tweed for winter. Even his grey socks and laced black leather shoes could be described as bland.) And his clients considered him the best accountant in town not so much for his competence, which was certainly adequate, but because he would rather cut off his right hand than steal from someone who had entrusted him with the sacred duty of managing company or personal finances.
Thus, Horatio had long established himself as virtue personified.
Then the sky fell in.