But he only muttered that she had her warning and that she should keep away from him, and that it would not be long before she should have an opportunity in life. And he went his way not looking back. When he reached his studio the hall was dark. As he turned the key he thought he heard something stirring in the shadows, but went in--leaving the door into the hallway open--and straight on across the room to his desk. He was putting something into his coat pocket, and his back was still turned to the open door when Graylock stepped quietly across the threshold; and Drene heard him, but closed his desk, leisurely, and then, as leisurely, turned, knowing who had entered. And so they stood alone together after many years. V 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. Presently he withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket, pulled an armchair toward him and seated himself. “It’s many years,” repeated Graylock. “I expected you to do something before this.” “Were you uneasy?” sneered Drene. Then he shrugged, knowing that Graylock was no coward, sorry he had intimated as much, like a man who deals a premature and useless blow. He sat brooding for a while, his lean dangerous head lowered sideways as though listening; his oblique glance always covering Graylock. “I suppose you’ll be surprised when I tell you one reason that I came here,” said Graylock. “Do you suppose you can still surprise me by anything you may say or do?” The man remained silent, sitting with his hands tightly clasped on his knees. “Drene,” he said, in a low voice, “don’t strike at me through this young girl.” Drene began to laugh, unpleasantly. “Are you in love with her?” “Yes.... You know it.”