Perhaps, thought Callao, Guelvada would be waiting for him. With his knife. The folding Swedish knife that he threw with such deadly accuracy.
Or Kiernan, or Aurora Francis, or someone else. People came to his apartment and threatened and beat him. They forced him into terrible situations. He, Vincente Callao, who desired only peace and sometimes a little love.
When he arrived at the door of his apartment house his hair was dank with sweat. He opened the door; went up the stairs. Almost he could hear his heart beating.
He opened the door; switched on the lights. He looked fearfully about the apartment. It was empty. He went into the top rooms. They too were empty.
He returned to the sitting-room; picked up a bottle of brandy; put the neck of the bottle in his mouth and drank. He sat do
