He chose a night when a steady, blowing rain had driven all but limousined and most necessitous traffic from the streets.  The rain was excuse for a long raincoat with high collar which buttoned under his nose, and a cap which pulled down to his eyes, and an umbrella which masked him from every direct glance.  Thus abetted and equipped he came, after a taxi ride and a walk, into his grandmother’s street.  It was as seemingly deserted as on that tumultuous night when he had left it; and on this occasion no figures sprang out of the cover of shadows, shooting and cursing.  He had calculated correctly and unmolested he gained the pawnshop door, passed the solemn-eyed, incurious Isaac, and entered the room behind.

His grandmother sat over her accounts at her desk in a corner among her curios.  Hunt, smoking a black pipe, was using his tireless right hand in a rapid sketch of her:  another of those swift, few-stroked, vivid character notes which were about his studio by the hundreds.  The Duchess saw Larry first; and she greeted him in the same unsurprised, emotionless manner as on the night he had come back from Sing Sing.

“Good-evening, Larry,” said she.

“Good-evening, grandmother,” he returned.

Hunt came to his feet, knocking over a chair in so doing, and gripped Larry’s hand.  “Hello—­here’s our wandering boy to-night!  How are you, son?”

“First-rate, you old paint-slinger.  And you?”

“Hitting all twelve cylinders and taking everything on high!  But say, listen, youngster:  how about your copper friends and those gun-toting schoolmates of yours?”

“Missed them so far.”

“Better keep on missing ’em.”  Hunt regarded him intently for a moment, then asked abruptly:  “Never heard one way or another—­but did you use that telephone number I gave you?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Sherwood take care of you?”

“Yes.”

“Still there?”

“Yes.”

Again Hunt was silent for a moment.  Larry expected questions about Miss Sherwood, for he knew the quality of the painter’s interest.  But Hunt seemed quite as determined to avoid any personal question relating to Miss Sherwood as she had been about personal questions relating to him; for his next remark was: 

“Young fellow, still keeping all those commandments you wrote for yourself?”

“So far, my bucko.”

“Keep on keeping ’em, and write yourself a few more, and you’ll have a brand-new decalogue.  And we’ll have a little Moses of our own.  But in the meantime, son, what’s the great idea of coming down here?”

“For one thing, I came to ask for a couple of your paintings.”

“My paintings!” Hunt regarded the other suspiciously.  “What the hell you want my paintings for?”

“They might make good towels if I can scrape the paint off.”

“Aw, cut out the vaudeville stuff!  I asked you what you wanted my paintings for?  Give me a straight answer!”