Harvey was all alive. "Come on, old chap," he exclaimed eagerly; "that's a good fellow—here's your hat. It won't take long," he added assuringly, moving towards the door.
There was little reluctance on Oliver's part. And a few minutes later the two went out together arm in arm, the victor and the vanquished—but vanquished both. It was Harvey who clung close, almost fondly, to the other; no memory of Oliver's share in his undoing, no hatred of the assassin-hand tempered the flow of fellowship between them now.
The morning had not yet come. But passion's gust was over and sated appetite refused.
"I'm going home," said Harvey, his voice unnatural, his feet unsteady.
"Not yet," said Oliver—"let's make a night of it."
"A night of it!" exclaimed the other bitterly. "Good God, Oliver!"
"Come on," said his companion doggedly. "Come with me—we'll both see the thing through."
"Come where?" said Harvey.
"You'll see. Come down this alley here—wait a minute."
Three or four minutes had elapsed; they were still walking.