“I 'm sorry,” he said once more. “Good.-night.”
The woman bit her lower lip.
“Good-night,” she answered dully.
At the corner of the street he turned his head. The woman was hurrying uneasily; a policeman coming from behind had caught her by the arm.
His heart began to beat. “Heavens!” he thought, “what shall I do now?” His first impulse was to walk away, and think no more about it—to act, indeed, like any averagely decent man who did not care to be concerned in such affairs.
He retraced his steps, however, and halted half a dozen paces from their figures.
“Ask the gentleman! He spoke to me,” she was saying in her brassy voice, through the emphasis of which Shelton could detect her fear.
“That's all right,” returned the policeman, “we know all about that.”
“You—police!” cried the woman tearfully; “I 've got to get my living, have n't I, the same as you?”
Shelton hesitated, then, catching the expression in her frightened face, stepped forward. The policeman turned, and at the sight of his pale, heavy jowl, cut by the cheek-strap, and the bullying eyes, he felt both hate and fear, as if brought face to face with all that he despised and loathed, yet strangely dreaded. The cold certainty of law and order upholding the strong, treading underfoot the weak, the smug front of meanness that only the purest spirits may attack, seemed to be facing him. And the odd thing was, this man was only carrying out his duty. Shelton moistened his lips.