Graylock looked at Drene's heavily sagging pocket and knew what was
in it. A sudden sweat chilled his temples, but he said steadily
enough: "I'd like to say a word or two--if you'll give me time." And, as
Drene made no reply;--"You're quite right: This business of ours
should be finished one way or another. I can't stand it any longer."

"In that case," remarked Drene with an evil stare at him, "I may
postpone it--to find out how much you can stand." He dropped his
right hand into the sagging pocket, looking intently at Graylock all
the while: "What do you want here anyway?"

"I fancy that you have already guessed."

"Maybe. All the same, what do you want?"--fumbling with his bulging
pocket for a moment and then remaining motionless.

Graylock's worn eyes rested on the outline of the shrouded weapon:
he stood eyeing it absently for a moment, then seated himself on the
sofa, his heavy eyes shifting from one object to another.

But there were few objects to be seen in that silent place;--a star
overhead glimmering through the high expanse of glass
above;--otherwise gray monotony of wall, a clay shape or two swathed
in wet clothes, a narrow ring of lamp light, and formless shadow.

"It's a long time, Drene."

Drene mused in silence, now and then watching the other obliquely.