"If you’ve got to have it, I think I know a place we can get in—I’m sure I do," drawled Oliver, yawning. "But bed’s the place for all of us."
Harvey was all alive. "Come on, old chap," he exclaimed eagerly; "that’s a good fellow—here’s your hat. It won’t take long," he added assuringly, moving towards the door.
There was little reluctance on Oliver’s part. And a few minutes later the two went out together arm in arm, the victor and the vanquished—but vanquished both. It was Harvey who clung close, almost fondly, to the other; no memory of Oliver’s share in his undoing, no hatred of the assassin-hand tempered the flow of fellowship between them now.
The morning had not yet come. But passion’s gust was over and sated appetite refused.
"I’m going home," said Harvey, his voice unnatural, his feet unsteady.
"Not yet," said Oliver—"let’s make a night of it."
"A night of it!" exclaimed the other bitterly. "Good God, Oliver!"
"Come on," said his companion doggedly. "Come with me—we’ll both see the thing through."
"You’ll see. Come down this alley here—wait a minute."
Three or four minutes had elapsed; they were still walking.
"There," said Oliver, standing still; "can you see that light?—there, in that upper window."
He saw it. It gleamed sinister, significant, through the mirk; blacker than the deepest darkness was its baneful light.
Oliver said something in a low voice; then he laughed.
Simmons turned full on his companion. The moon was setting, but its latest beams still shed a fitful light. And they showed Harvey’s face flushed and worn, the eyes unnatural in their heaviness and gloom. But there was a strange redeeming light in them as they fixed themselves on Oliver, the light of indignant scorn; any who had known his mother would have recognized something of the old-time light that had glowed from her face before the darkness veiled it.
Harvey’s heavy eyes flashed as he spoke. "Oliver," he said, and the tone was haughty, old-time pride struggling against fearful odds as the sun writhes its way through the mist; "Oliver, if you’re going to the devil, you can go alone. I’m not quite gone yet, thank God. I’m a good many kinds of a fool, I know—but I’m not that kind—I’m not a sot. And Oliver," coming closer up to him, "I’ll admit I’m as much to blame for to-night as you are—but we’re done, Oliver, now. We’re done with each other—forever. D’ye hear, Oliver?" as he turned and started back up the shadowy lane.