Later in the day he said to Storch: 

“Are you sure the maker of that bomb was skillful?”

Storch bared his green teeth.

“One is sure of nothing!” he snapped back.

Fred tried to appear nonchalant.  “Aren’t you rather bold, having this thing delivered in broad daylight?”

“What have we to fear?”

“I thought we were being watched.”

Storch threw back his head and roared with laughter. “You have been watched ... if that’s what you mean.  I never believe in taking any unnecessary chances.”

Fred made no reply.  But a certain contempt for Storch that hitherto had been lacking rose within him.  He had always fancied certain elements of bigness in this man in spite of his fanaticism.  Suddenly he was conscious that his silence had evoked a subtle uneasiness in Storch.  At this moment he laughed heartily himself as he rose from his seat, slapping Storch violently on the back as he cried: 

“Upon my word, Storch, you’re a master hand!  No matter what happens now, at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that I was perfectly stage-managed.”

They kept close to the house until nearly midnight.  At a few moments to twelve Storch drew a flask of smuggled brandy from his hip pocket.

“Here, take a good drink!” he said, passing the bottle to Fred.

Fred did as he was bidden.  Storch followed suit.

“Would you like a turn in the open?” Storch inquired, not unkindly.

“Yes,” Fred assented.

They put on their hats.  When they were outside Storch made a little gesture of surrender.  “You lead ...  I’ll follow,” he said, indulgently.

The night was breathless—­still touched with the vagrant warmth of an opulent April day.  The spring of blossoming acacias was over, but an even fuller harvest of seasonal unfolding was sweeping the town.  A fragrant east wind was flooding in from the blossom-starred valleys, and vacant lots yielded up a scent of cool, green grass.  A soul-healing quality released itself from the heavily scented air—­hidden and mysterious beauties of both body and spirit that sent little thrills through Fred Starratt.  He had never been wrapped in a more exquisite melancholy—­not even during the rain-raked days at Fairview.  He knew that Storch was by his side, but, for the moment, this sinister personality seemed to lose its power and he felt Monet near him.  It was as it had been during those days upon Storch’s couch with death beckoning—­the nearer he approached the dead line, the more distinctly he saw Monet.  To-night his vision was clouded, but a keener intuition gave him the sense of Monet’s presence.  He knew that he was standing close to another brink.

For a time he surrendered completely to this luxury of feeling, as if it strengthened him to find stark reality threaded with so much haunting beauty.  But he discovered himself suddenly yearning for the poetry of life rather than the poetry of death.  He wanted to live, realizing completely that to-morrow might seal everything.  He was not afraid, but he was alive, very much alive—­so alive that he found himself rising triumphant from sorrow and shame and disillusionment.