"All right," he said. She felt the great muscle in his arm swell and relax again. "Do you know the way, Tom?" she asked.
"That next street below takes us to the docks. I walked down there this morning. By heaven, Mary, I think you might spare yourself all this. It's too horrible to even think of. Why—why, I just can't do it with you looking on. What do you think I am?"
"You said you would do it, Tom," she insisted dully.
"Bob Grand is dead," he reminded her. "I said that he and I couldn't live on the same earth. It's hard to think of going straight to hell with him not more than two hours ahead of me."
"Come," she said, starting off resolutely. He caught up with her, and they hurried through the alley side by side.
"I'll do it, all right," he said, after they had traversed nearly two blocks in silence. The words came as an epitome of the struggle that was going on in his mind.
"Don't walk so fast, Tom. You are tiring me."
"Tiring you?" he exclaimed. He looked at her bent head and laughed,—a short, mirthless chuckle. "You'll have to forgive me, Mary. You see I've been thinking of something else. Men walk fast when they're in a hurry."
"Is it much farther?" He could scarcely hear the words.
"Six or eight blocks, if I remember right."