"Awful."
They balanced each other. A beetle hissed by on the road with its seventeen tires whirling quietly. The moon showed a little town further over in the black hills.
"I say," said the man McClure.
"Yes."
"Could you answer me a question?"
"Be glad to." He loosened the knife in his coat pocket, ready.
"Is your name Lantry?" asked the man at last.
"Yes."
"William Lantry?"
"Yes."