quarters in many weeks.

Drene nodded: "I expect to go for a walk this evening."

But he did not. He lay on his couch, eyes open in the darkness,
wondering what Graylock was doing, how he lived, what occupied his
days.

What were the nights of a condemned man like? Did Graylock sleep?
Did he suffer? Was the suspense a living death to him? Had he ever
suspected him, Drene, of treachery after he, Graylock, had fulfilled
his final part of the bargain.

For a long time, now, a fierce curiosity concerning what Graylock
was thinking and doing had possessed Drene. What does a man, who is
in good physical health, do, when he is at liberty to compute to the
very second how many seconds of life remain for him?

Drene's sick brain ached with the problem day and night.

In November the snow fell. Drene had not been out except in
imagination.

Day after day, in imagination, he had followed Graylock, night after
night, slyly, stealthily, shirking after him through busy avenues at
midday, lurking by shadowy houses at midnight, burning to see what
expression this man wore, what was imprinted on his
features;--obsessed by a desire to learn what he might be
thinking--with death drawing nearer.