Scott was confused. Grant’s voice was so sure, so confident, and he was a righteous man. “No, I guess not.”

“You guess not? Well, I don’t have to guess. I can say for sure.”

Another roar went up from the crowd. Scott could see their backs and the torches, pumping up and down in clenched hands. He looked at his shoes, as if he couldn’t get over how mud-spattered they were. He said, tentatively, “The post office? But it won’t arrive on time.”

“We post it now, it’ll make the early mail.”

Scott pondered that. “The man said seven-thirty.”

Grant laughed and clapped him on the back. “You lawyers. It was a figure of speech, that’s all.”

Scott looked skeptical.

“Look. Didn’t the declaration itself say they demanded an answer within twelve hours? Right in the text?”

Scott was on firm ground now—he understood documents. “Right. Within twelve hours.”

“And what time did you meet with Waddell and his bunch?”

“Three-thirty sharp. The meeting lasted half an hour.”

“So twelve hours from four o’clock makes four in the morning. Yet he said seven-thirty.” He knew Scott was too scared to think straight. “Does that sound to you like they care whether it gets there at four in the morning, or seven-thirty, or eight-thirty, just so long as we give in?”

Scott thought about it awhile, then smiled. “When you put it that way…”

“Anyway, they already have their answer. Didn’t lawyer Henderson say he told them Manly was already gone? Didn’t he tell them we meant no trouble?”

“He did that. He’s a man to speak his mind.”

“So the written reply is really just a formality. Something for the record. They’re not in any suspense.”

Scott relaxed. “No use me getting all shot up over this thing.” He laughed with nervous relief.

Grant shook his hand. “I admire a man with common sense.”

They doubled back down Market Street together, keeping to the shadows, and hurried along Front Street two blocks to the post office. On the steps of the massive marble building, Scott stopped short. “Damn!”

“What is it?”

“They’re closed—and I haven’t got a stamp.”

Grant smiled, reached into his coat pocket, and extracted a glassine envelope full of stamps. “Here,” he said, offering it to Scott. “Better paste two on it, just to be sure. No sense taking any chances.”

John Norwood left Jacobs’ Barbershop alone. He wasn’t sure where he was going. See if Mayor Wright was in his rooms at the Orton Hotel, maybe. Find Flavell Foster or Ben Keith, buy a little insurance from the vigilantes. He had to walk awhile and think this thing through. He had a hunch there was precious little time left for quiet reflection.