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"I shivered, looking toward the street, where up the alley through the tunneling dark, three mounted policemen loomed beneath the circular, snow-sparkling beam of the street lamp, grasping their horses by their bridles, the heads of both men and animals bent close, as though plotting; the leather of saddles and leggings shining. Three white men and three black horses. Then a car passed and they showed in full relief, their shadows flying like dreams across …

…it clearly and in growing magnitude. It was not suicide, but murder. The committee had planned it. And I had helped, had been a tool" (pg 553). It is uncanny the way that his submission stares him the face, yet he blindly runs further into it without blinking an eye. His whole career was not even that; he was a pawn for the Brotherhood to move around, a horse for them to command and ride upon.