Grawson made no move to light himself a cigar. Chance had expected that he would, and was surprised when he did not. Grawson folded his arms, holding each in the hand of the other. Chance noted that the fingers of his right hand had trembled a bit. Then Grawson was calm. Grawson unfolded his arms.

“You’ll want to stop by your rooms, or whatever,” said Grawson, “pick up some things-maybe settle the bill with your landlady.”

“Yes,” said Chance, absently. “Thank you.”

Somewhere across the street a girl was laughing.

“Then,” said Grawson, “we’ll stop by the hotel for my things-and then go to the station.”

“Tomorrow night at this time,” said Chance, not really thinking about it, “I’ll be in Charleston again.”

Grawson said nothing. His left eye and the left side of his face moved once, uncontrollably.

“I’ll hail a cab,” said Chance.

“No,” said Grawson. “We’ll walk.”

It would be a long walk, but not more than two or three miles. Chance did not care. Let that walk be as long as it could. Let it last as long as it might.

Grawson looked up and down the street, which was not crowded now, the hour being well past midnight. Yet there were couples here and there. And an occasional cab.

The left side of his face twitched again.

“This way,” said Chance, turning left and crossing 45th Street.

They walked on in silence.

To Chance it seemed their footsteps were very loud.

Inadvertently he noticed that Grawson’s hands moved against the sides of his trousers, wiping sweat from the palms.

“Hot,” said Chance.

Grawson said nothing.

I am the law, Lester Grawson told himself, I am the law, and I do not swerve, I do not yield.

He looked at the slighter man beside him, the pale, rather homely face, the deep eyes, the shoulders that seemed somehow crushed with whatever weight it was they bore.