Foraging about, he found bread and cheese in the pantry and milk and fruit in the ice chest and upon these he made a simple but satisfying meal.
It was cooler; there was no doubt about it. A freshening breeze was sweeping up from the river and blowing in the curtains at the living-room windows.
Storm decided impulsively upon a stroll before turning in again. He had not indulged in one of his nocturnal walks since that momentous one with Jack Horton the week before; but he need not bring that back too vividly by venturing in the same direction, and his throbbing head demanded the fresh night air. Why should he think of Horton now? Last week was past and dead, as dead as last month, as this whole, wretched, nerve-racking time would be a year from now when he would be far away, and all of this forgotten!
Yet when he reached the path he found his feet insensibly turning toward the incline beyond the viaduct, around that turn where the ground sloped so sharply down from the wall. With returning strength the impulse came to test himself, to see if he had sufficient nerve to stroll past that spot where in the darkness he had struck that single, sure blow. Why not? Surely no suspicion could attach to him for that! It was public property, the path was free to all and there would be nothing strange about a midnight stroll after the terrific heat of the day should anyone chance to cross his path.
Could he do it? Could he bring himself to walk slowly, steadily up that incline, to pass without faltering that place against the wall where Horton’s body had crumpled; to go on without a backward glance into the shadows that would lurk behind? Surely no other man in the world would dare such a supreme test of his fortitude, his strength! Could he see it through?
Storm threw back his shoulders and with measured, determined tread started upon the path. The moon was sinking behind a cloud, the breeze blew in sharper, angrier gusts and the stir in the treetops had become a sibilant, whispering chorus. It might be that a storm was brewing, but it would not come until long after he was safe at home again, and he was rather glad that the moon’s eerie light was fading; it had a tricky way of bringing unfamiliar angles into sharp relief, casting weird shadows to creep after one, filling one with a senseless desire to walk faster, to glance behind. . . .
Here was where they had walked when Horton boasted so about his girl! What a complacent, self-satisfied creature he had been! Common, too; how a few years of roughing it brought out the bourgeois streak in a man! Everything about him had grated, repelled; his swagger, his laugh, the animal-like gusto with which he ate and drank and smoked. What a boor!
Yonder was the street lamp and here the place where Storm himself had halted ostensibly to light a cigarette, but in reality to wait until the approaching figure of the policeman should have advanced into the surrounding shadows. There was no policeman to-night; no living thing seemed to be abroad save himself, and the path ahead looked all at once lonely and foreboding.
It rose sharply now; he had reached the foot of the incline. This was where Horton had first suggested going back, and he had argued for the sight of the river steamer when she came around the turn. Horton had been descanting on his future with the Mid-Eastern people; his future, which had come to an end there ahead where the wall sloped! He had been so sure of himself!
But surely the wind was rising! These summer showers came up with amazing suddenness; perhaps it would be as well——?