On the night that Joe shot Max Wilson, Palmer was noticeably restless. He had seen Grace Irving that day for the first time but once since the motor accident. To do him justice, his dissipation of the past few months had not included women.
The girl had a strange fascination for him. Perhaps she typified the care-free days before his marriage; perhaps the attraction was deeper, fundamental. He met her in the street the day before Max Wilson was shot. The sight of her walking sedately along in her shop-girl's black dress had been enough to set his pulses racing. When he saw that she meant to pass him, he fell into step beside her.
“I believe you were going to cut me!”
“I was in a hurry.”
“Still in the store?”
“Yes.” And, after a second's hesitation: “I'm keeping straight, too.”
“How are you getting along?”
“Pretty well. I've had my salary raised.”
“Do you have to walk as fast as this?”
“I said I was in a hurry. Once a week I get off a little early. I—”