It was at the blackest hour before dawn that this realization grew to full stature. He raised himself upon his elbow, listening to the heavy breathing of Storch. He rose cautiously. Now was his chance. He would escape while his conviction was still glistening with the freshness of crystallization. Moving with a catlike tread toward the door, he put his hand upon the knob. It turned noisily. He heard Storch leap to his feet. He stood quite still until Storch came up to him.
"Go back to bed … where you belong!" Storch was commanding, coolly, with a shade of menace in his voice.
He shuffled back to his couch. He was no longer afraid of Storch, but a certain craftiness suddenly possessed him.
Presently he heard a key turn and he felt himself to be completely in the hands of his jailer. Yet the locked door became at once the symbol of both Storch's strength and weakness. Storch was determined to have either his body or his soul. And, at that moment, Fred Starratt made his choice.
Next morning Storch was up early and bustling about with unusual clatter.
"Get up!" he cried, gayly, to Fred. "Do you realize this is Friday?…
There are a thousand details to attend to."
Fred pretended to find Storch's manner infectious. He had never seen anyone so eager, so thrilling with anticipation.
"I've got to buy you a new outfit complete," Storch went on, filling the coffeepot with water. "And you must be shaved and shorn and made human-looking again. Rags are well enough to wrap discontent in … but one should have a different make-up for achievement… What was the matter last night?"
"Oh, a bit of panic, I guess," Fred returned, nonchalantly. "But I'm all right this morning."
Storch rubbed his hands in satisfaction, and he smiled continually.