Graylock's worn eyes rested on the outline of the shrouded weapon:
he stood eyeing it absently for a moment, then seated himself on the
sofa, his heavy eyes shifting from one object to another.

But there were few objects to be seen in that silent place;--a star
overhead glimmering through the high expanse of glass
above;--otherwise gray monotony of wall, a clay shape or two swathed
in wet clothes, a narrow ring of lamp light, and formless shadow.

"It's a long time, Drene."

Drene mused in silence, now and then watching the other obliquely.

Presently he withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket, pulled an
armchair toward him and seated himself.

"It's many years," repeated Graylock. "I expected you to do
something before this."

"Were you uneasy?" sneered Drene. Then he shrugged, knowing that
Graylock was no coward, sorry he had intimated as much, like a man
who deals a premature and useless blow.

He sat brooding for a while, his lean dangerous head lowered
sideways as though listening; his oblique glance always covering
Graylock.

"I suppose you'll be surprised when I tell you one reason that I
came here," said Graylock.