"Brownie," he said at length. "Brownie." The whole scene came back upon him; the moonlight, and Irene's distress, and the little bleeding body. And he had said he didn't know anything about the justice of God; all he knew was the crittur that couldn't run was the one that got caught. . . . And he had said that was life. . . . He had said it was only nature.
And then they had stood among the trees and beneath the white moon and pledged their faith. . . .
Again his head went up, and the old light flashed in his eyes. "The first thing is to kill the wolf," he said aloud. "No other innocent shall fall to his fangs. Then--my country."
Darkness had again fallen before Dave found his car threading the streets of the city, still feverish with its new-born excitement of war. He returned his car to the garage; an attendant looked up curiously,--it was evident from his glance that Dave had already been missed--but no words were exchanged. He stood for a moment in the street collecting his thoughts and rehearsing his resolves. He was amazed to find that, even in his bitterness, the city reached a thousand hands to him--hands of habit, and association, and custom of mind--all urging him back into the old groove; all saying, "The routine is the thing; be a spoke in the wheel; go 'round with the rest of us."
"No," he reminded himself. "No, I can't do that. I have business on hand. First--to kill the wolf."
He remembered that he had given his revolver to Irene. And suddenly she sat with him again at the tea table. . . . Where was he? Yes, he had given his revolver to Irene. Well, there was another in his rooms. First to kill the wolf.
In the hallway of the block in which he had his bachelor apartments Dave almost collided with a woman. He drew back, and the light fell on his face, but hers was in the shadow. And then he heard her voice. "Oh, Dave, I'm so glad--why, what has happened?" The last words ran into a little treble of pain as she noted his haggard face; he had not eaten for twenty-four hours, nor slept for thirty-six.
"You--Edith," he managed to say. "Whatever----"
She came toward him and placed her hands on his. "I've been here a hundred times--ever since morning--ever since Bert Morrison called up to say you had disappeared--that there was some mystery. There isn't, is there, Dave? You're all right, Dave, aren't you, Dave?"