"Yeah, I saw it. They got the monument about one quarter full already — I was by there this afternoon."
Mr. Schmidt gazed vacantly at the ceiling.
"Any time you've got any other job like that, we'll still be making good cement," he said, with the same studied casualness. "You know we always like to look after anyone who can put a bit of business our way."
"Sure, I'll remember it," said Mr. Eisenfeld amiably.
Mr. Schmidt fingered his chin. "Too bad about Provost, wasn't it?" he remarked.
"Yeah," agreed Mr. Eisenfeld, "too bad."
Half an hour later he escorted his guest out to his car. The light over the porch had gone out when he returned to the house, and without giving it any serious thought he attributed the failure to a blown fuse or a faulty bulb. He was in too good a humour to be annoyed by it; and he was actually humming complacently to himself as he groped his way up the dark steps. The light in the hall had gone out as well, and he frowned faintly over the idle deduction that it must have been a fuse. He pushed through the door and turned to close it; and then a hand clamped over his mouth, and something hard and uncongenial pressed into the small of his back. A gentle voice spoke chillingly in his ear.
"Just one word" — it whispered invitingly — "just one word out of you, Al, and your life is going to be even shorter than I expected."
Mr. Eisenfeld stood still, with his muscles rigid. He was not a physical coward but the grip which held his head pressed back against the chest of the unknown man behind him had a firm competence which announced that there were adequate sinews behind it to back up its persuasion in any hand-to-hand struggle. Also, the object which prodded into the middle of his spine constituted an argument in itself which he was wise enough to understand.
The clasp on his mouth relaxed tentatively and slid down to rest lightly on his throat. The same gentle voice breathed again on his right eardrum.