Jean's smile was uncertain, too, as she replied:
"All right. I'm willing to take the blame."
They drank the last drops of cold coffee to The Auditorium, and then Jean looked at her watch and got up quickly.
"There seems something specially fatal about plans and the strike. I promised Rachael to see her to-night. I've got to run."
"Wait. I'll walk down with you."
"I may have to stay some time. I'm worried about Ray——" Before the look in Gregory's eyes, Jean stopped. She knew he had not heard although he was looking directly at her. She sought for words to prevent his coming, but she knew they would be useless even if she found them.
Gregory paid the check and they left the restaurant. In absolute silence they walked along Division Street, between the rows of shrieking hucksters, and past the babies tumbling in their path. They halted before a dirty tenement on Essex Street. Again Jean tried to think of something to say that would turn Gregory back, and could not. So close that she could almost feel his body touching hers, they mounted the first two flights with their imitation tiling and flickering gas, the third with its cracked plaster, the fourth with no lights at all, and the fifth, so dark that they had to feel their way by the greasy wooden wall.
There was no light under Rachael's door. "I don't believe she's in. There must be something wrong. Terribly wrong."
Gregory did not answer. She could hear him breathing in quick, deep breaths. She began knocking sharply and calling. But no one answered. Jean turned the handle. The door opened. It was silent and dark and stifling.
"I think I had better leave a note." Jean entered the kitchen, and Gregory crossed the threshold and stood close.