He rose. "I'm kind of tired tonight," he went on. "Maybe we better be running along. Thanks for the drinks and all."
He and his wife slipped into their raincoats and galoshes for the short walk home. The street outside was dark, a rare lamp glowing off slick wet concrete. Rain misted his face and glasses, he had trouble seeing.
"Poor darling," Elizabeth took his arm. "Don't worry. We'll get through all right."
"I hope so," he said fervently. No money had come in for some time now. Bob's enterprise was levelling off as initial demand was filled, and a lurching industry wasn't buying many electronic valves. The bank account was getting low.
He saw the figure ahead as a vague shadow against the night. It stood waiting till they came up, and then stepped in their path. The voice was unfamiliar: "Arch?"
"Yes—"
He could see only that the face was heavy and unshaven, with something wild about the mouth. Then his eyes dropped to the revolver barrel protruding from the slicker. "What the devil—"
"Don't move, you." It was a harsh, broken tone. "Right now I'm aiming at your wife. I'd as soon shoot her, too."
Fear leaped crazily in Arch's breast. He stood unable to stir, coldness crawling in his guts. He tried to speak, and couldn't.
"Not a word, you—. Not another word. You've said too goddam much already." The gun poked forward, savagely. "I'm going to kill you. You did your best to kill me."