"But I wanted to help his kind," said Arch feebly.
"You didn't," said Horrisford. "I'd better arrange for a police guard."
Arch spent the following day in a nearly suicidal depression. Elizabeth tried to pull him out of it, failed, and went downtown after a fifth of whiskey. That helped. The hangover helped too. It's hard to concentrate on remorse when ten thousand red-hot devils are building an annex to Hell in your skull. Toward evening, he was almost cheerful again. A certain case-hardening was setting in.
After dark, there was a knock on the door. When he opened it, Horrisford and a stranger stood there.
"Oh—come in," he said "Excuse the mess. I—haven't been feeling so well."
"Anyone here?" asked the agent.
"Just my wife."
"She'll be all right," said the stranger impatiently. He was a big, stiff, gray-haired man. "Bring her in, please. This is important."
They were settled in the living room before Horrisford performed the introductions. "Major General Brackney of Strategic Services." Arch's hand was wet as he acknowledged the handclasp.