The fire burned down, reddening the darkness ’til everything around them hurt somewhat to contemplate—or perhaps that was just Morrow’s skull, which had begun to pound, erratic as that tooth old Doc Glossing had “painlessly” pulled, what now seemed like fifty years before. “He’s a man of parts,” Morrow said, finally, of Pinkerton. “Well suited to make hard choices, as needs must. From what I’ve seen, though . . . can’t quite believe he’d be capable of all that.” Geyer shook his head. “Nor I, Ed; nor I. And yet . . .” He winced, as though Morrow’s ache were catching. The conversation ran dry once more, with little hope of revivification. “I’m for bed,” Geyer said, finally, bolting the last of his drink. To Yancey: “Would you be willing to share with me, Mister . . . Kloves? I’d take the floor, of course, in practice.” “That’d be right kind.”
