THE MAN CALLED HINMAN
Bright and early on Christmas morning, Mr. Sydney Force walked slowly,
even irresolutely up the broad avenue leading to Mr. Bingle's
stupendous door-step. The snow had been cleared off of the narrow
footpath, but the president of the great city bank was so deeply
engrossed that he failed to take advantage of this singular
demonstration of worthiness on the part of Edgecomb and his assistants
so soon after the break of dawn. As a matter of fact, he had forgotten
that it was Christmas morning. He walked in the middle of the roadway,
in four inches of snow, and kept his gaze fixed rather intently on the
big house at the top of the avenue.
Mr. Force had not slept well. Indeed, he had not slept at all. The
shock he had received early in the evening was of the kind that
shatters one's peace of mind to a degree but little short of
calamitous. A plunge into ice-cold water would have failed to produce
the deadly chill that crept over him when he heard the name of Glenn.
How he succeeded in controlling himself so well that his profound
agitation escaped the attention of the others, he could not explain. He
was amazed to find that he had managed it so well. For, it must be
confessed, Mr. Force's habitual equanimity had undergone a strain that
came so near to resulting in a collapse that only a miracle--(it may
have taken the form of stupefaction, or a kindly paralysis)--only a
miracle could have kept him from betraying the one great secret of his
life.
Ordinarily, he would have put off calling on the Bingles for a month or
six weeks, being that scornful of social amenities; but he could hardly
wait for the approach of sunrise to be on his way to Seafood on this
brilliant Christmas morning. It was not a brilliant, shimmering day for
him, however. He saw nothing beautiful in the steel-blue sky: to him it
was a drab, unlovely pall. He saw no beauty in the snow-clad foliage,
no splendour in the bejewelled tree-tops, no purity in the veil of
white that lay upon the face of the earth. He saw only himself, and he
was a drear, bleak thing as viewed introspectively.
Nor is it to be taken for granted that Mr. Bingle slept well on this
night before Christmas. Neither he nor his wife went to bed until far
along in the wee sma' hours. The great house was as still as the grave,
save for the occasional crack of shrinking woodwork and the rattle of
dislodged icicles on the window-ledges outside. The wind had died away.
It seemed that all nature, respecting their mood, had hushed its every
noise in order that they might think, and think, and think on without
hope or a single sign of promise in this time of despair.
They were to lose Kathleen. The man had been somewhat vague about it,
but the situation was clear to them, even though it was not so to him.
Their claim to the child--the one they loved best of all--was no longer
undivided. A real father had turned up to assert his rights. They might
dispute his claim and make the affair so awkward and so unpleasant for
him that he would withdraw, but what would be their gain? The man
existed. He was the real father. Kathleen was the flesh and blood of
this tardy penitent, this betrayer of women, this coward. Never again,
so long as she lived, could she be looked upon as theirs. Even though
she remained with them, and in perfect contentment, there would still
be the sinister shadow lying across the path--the shadow of a man
hiding, of a man who dared not come out into the open but whose
everlasting presence was a threat.
They did not know this man, they did not know whether he was a
blackguard or a gentleman. He was a destroyer; that much they knew. He
had wrecked a human life. The detective had declared to Mr. Bingle that
his client was a man of means, married, and eminently respectable, but
then a detective's idea of respectability is not always a safe one to
go by. Every man is respectable until some one is hired to prove that
he isn't.
When Mr. Force rang the front door-bell, Mr. and Mrs. Bingle were
seated before the fire in the library. Kathleen sat upon the former's
knee. The rest of the children had been sent off to the huge playroom
on the top floor, and their distant shrieks, muffled by the thicknesses
of many doors and walls, came faintly down to the fireside. With the
subdued, even refined jingle of the door-bell, the two Bingles
straightened up in their chairs and looked into each other's eyes,
suddenly apprehensive. Who could be calling on them at such an early
hour? Was it some one in connection with this unhappy business? Could
it be possible that they had come to take Kathleen away so soon?
"Better run upstairs, now, Kathie," said Mr. Bingle, abruptly.
"Skedaddle! Go up the back way, dear." He thought of the back-stairs
just in time. It wouldn't do for her to encounter the strange, perhaps
unfeeling emissaries in the main hall. No telling what they might do.
They might even take forcible possession of her and be off before help
could be summoned.
"I want to stay here with you, daddy," protested Kathleen, resolutely
clinging to her perch on his knee--and was not to be dislodged. Before
Mr. Bingle could utter another word, Diggs appeared in the door and
announced Mr. Force. Instantly Kathleen's manner changed. She released
her grip on Mr. Bingle's arm and slid to the floor. "Oh, I hate him! I
don't want to see him."
"Kathie!" cried Mrs. Bingle, distressed. "You should not say such
things. Mr. Force is very nice to you. He likes you--"
"He gives me a pain," said Kathleen succinctly.
"Good heavens!" gasped Mr. Bingle. "Where did you learn such language
as that?"
"It isn't language, daddy," said Kathie. "It's just slang. Everybody
uses it. Don't people give you a pain sometimes?"
"Never!" said he. "I don't believe in slang," he added, as if to
fortify himself against a conviction. "You needn't go, deary. Stay and
see Mr. Force."
"I don't want to see him. I want to see Fairy. Oh, daddy, what are you
going to let her get married for? I know Freddie will commit suicide if
she marries that old Flanders."
"Freddie? What business is it of his?"
"I mustn't tell," she said, suddenly realising that she had been on the
point of betraying a grave secret. An instant later she was off like
the wind, whisking out of one door as Mr. Force entered by the other.
"Dear me, dear me," sighed Mr. Bingle, staring at his wife helplessly;
"what do you suppose has happened to Frederick? A boy of his age
talking of suicide is--Oh, good morning, Mr. Force. Merry Christmas!
'Pon my word, you're an early bird. Come up to the fire. You look half
frozen. Why, by George, your teeth are chattering. Diggs! Throw on a
couple of logs, will you, and get the whiskey. We keep it for medicinal
purposes and--"
"Not for me," broke in Mr. Force hastily. "Not a thing to drink, old
man. I'm quite all right. It is a bit snappy outside. Good morning,
Mrs. Bingle. How are you feeling since the--I beg your pardon, Bingle,
I really don't want a drink. Silly of me to shiver like this. You'd
think I had a chill, wouldn't you? But I'll be all right in a minute or
two."
He stood with his back to the blazing logs. His teeth were chattering,
but not because of the cold. Every nerve in his body was on edge; his
physical being was merely responding to the turmoil that filled his
brain. Could they have seen his hands, clasped behind his back, they
might have wondered why the fingers were locked together in a grip so
fierce that the cords stood out in ridges on his wrists.
"You don't know what you miss, not having children about you on
Christmas morning," said Mr. Bingle, planting his small figure
alongside that of the tall man and attempting to spread his coat tails,
an utter impossibility in view of the fact that he had no tails to
spread, being incased in a dressing gown that reached almost to his
heels when he stood erect but unmistakably touched the floor if he
permitted his dignity to sag in the least--and he was having some
difficulty in maintaining his dignity on this doleful morning, it may
be said. "It would have done your heart good, Force, if you could have
been here this morning--say at half-past six--and seen the circus we
had. Well, sir, it was--"
"Half-past six? My dear man, you don't mean to say those little rascals
got you out of bed at that ungodly hour. Why, I would have--"
"Just the other way 'round," said Mr. Bingle, sheepishly. "We had to
fairly yank 'em out of bed. We are the rascals, Force--Mary and I. We
couldn't wait, don't you see? But, of course, you don't see. You
couldn't see unless you'd been counting on Christmas morning for
months. You--But, what's the matter, Force? 'Pon my word, you DO need a
bracer. Mary, dear, won't you see if--"
"See here, Bingle," blurted out Mr. Force, in desperation, "I want a
few words with you alone. It is--imperative. Hope you will excuse me,
Mrs. Bingle. I'm a bit upset--yes, considerably upset--over something
that has come up in the--er--that is to say, quite recently. I--I want
your husband's advice on--on a matter of grave importance."
The Bingles stared at him for a moment in speechless concern. Then Mr.
Bingle managed to give expression to the fear that entered his heart as
Force concluded his amazing remarks.
"Anything--anything wrong at the bank?" he inquired, swallowing hard.
Was the man about to tell him that the bank--the great bank--was going
under, that there had been defalcations, that--but even as he pictured
the collapse of the bank there shot into his brain another and still
more ghastly thought: had the Supreme Court decided against him in the
long-fought case of Hooper et al vs. Bingle?
"Certainly NOT," exclaimed Mr. Force, with sudden irascibility. His
nerves WERE at a high tension, there was no denying that. "Nothing
whatever to do with the bank, sir. What the dev--what could have put
such a thought into your head, Bingle?"
"You looked so--so blasted serious," said Mr. Bingle, with surprising
heat.
"Thomas!" cried his wife, aghast.
"Beg pardon, Force," muttered Mr. Bingle, very much ashamed of himself.
"I didn't mean to be profane. I guess I'm a little nervous myself."
"Can't I look serious without putting the bank on its last legs?"
demanded Mr. Force, glaring.
"Certainly," Mr. Bingle made haste to assure him. "Look as serious as
you please, Force. I know it can't hurt the bank. Don't go, Mary. Mr.
Force and I will slip up to my study. We are less likely to be
interrupted there."
"I trust Mrs. Force is well," said the lady of Seawood, and there was a
note of anxiety in her voice. There HAD been a queer taste to the
lobster a la Newburg. She remembered mentioning it to Mr. Bingle after
the company had gone.
Mr. Force was guilty of an uneasy start. What was the woman driving at?
What put it into her head to mention his wife? Why SHOULDN'T his wife
be well?
"Quite well, thank you," he said at the end of a deep exhalation.
Indeed he was quite without breath when he came to the "thank you." It
would have been better if he hadn't tried to be so courteous. "Quite
well," would have been sufficient. He realised, as he wheezily filled
his lungs, that the "thank you" was entirely superfluous. In any event,
it wasn't so important that he should have gone to the pains of
upsetting his dignity in order to say it, no matter if it was the
proper thing to say. He always hated anything that caused him to become
red in the face.
"It's quite a relief," said Mrs. Bingle, brightening. It would have
been dreadful if anything HAD been the matter with the lobster.
But Mr. Force knew nothing whatever about the suspected lobster and
being in considerable doubt as to just how much of Miss Glenn's story
the Bingles had learned, very naturally believed that the good lady was
concerned about Mrs. Force's peace of mind rather than her state of
health. He grew perfectly scarlet and mumbled something about his wife
sleeping like a log, and then hastily followed Mr. Bingle out of the
room.
"Troubles never come singly, do they, Force?" said Bingle as they
mounted the stairs. He sighed deeply.
"So they say," said Force, also sighing. He was thinking of the
interview that was to come. He was wondering just how he was going to
explain things to Mr. Bingle.
"She isn't to be married till spring, but--Oh, well, I suppose I
shouldn't complain." Mr. Force stopped stock-still on the stairs.
"Mar-married?" he gasped. "Are you crazy?"
"Almost," said Mr. Bingle promptly. "If anything more happens, I'll be
wholly so. Come in, Force. Now, old chap, what's on YOUR mind?" They
had entered the study. Mr. Bingle faced his visitor after closing the
door carefully behind him. "Out with it? Don't keep me in suspense.
Has--has the case finally gone against me?"
"Who is going to be married in the spring?" demanded Force, wiping his
brow.
"Miss Fairweather. I thought you knew."
"Oh, the devil! Of course not! What do I know about Miss Fairweather's
affairs?"
"Flanders is the man. He's the lucky dog. An old affair, Force.
Tremendously romantic story back of--"
"Needn't mind, Bingle. I don't care to hear it at present. I've got
something a great deal more important to think about--dammit." He sat
down heavily, and began fumbling for his cigar case. His forehead was
dripping wet.
"It must be serious," said Mr. Bingle slowly, "or you wouldn't be
swearing as you do, Force. I've never heard you swear before."
"It is serious. Of all the improbable, dime novel, hellish--But tell
me, Bingle: how much do you know?"
"How much do I know about what?"
"Didn't that fellow blab anything to you last night?"
"Bla--blab?"
Force pointed to a chair. "Sit down. Are you sure no one can hear what
I'm saying?"
"No one but yours truly," said Mr. Bingle, assuming a jauntiness he did
not feel. He sat down, his back as stiff as a board.
His visitor leaned forward, his hands grasping the arms of the chair.
"Well, I'll tell you something, Bingle, that will paralyse you. I--I
didn't sleep a wink last night."
"That doesn't paralyse me. Neither did I--"
"This is no time to be funny, Bingle," said the other roughly. "Do you
want to know what kept me awake all night, suffering the torments of
the damned?"
"I do," responded Mr. Bingle, casting a quick glance at Mr. Force's
jaw. He knew what it was to have a toothache.
"Well, it was that miserable business about--about Kathleen," said
Force, a querulous note creeping into his voice. Mr. Bingle did not
think it worth while to tell him that it was the same miserable
business that kept him awake. "Now, I want the truth, Bingle. I want to
be sure before I go ahead. It means a great deal to both of us. Was
Kathleen's mother named Agnes Glenn?"
"It was," said Mr. Bingle, his eyes narrowing with the dawn of
comprehension.
"Did you ever see her?"
"Once, just before she died."
"Describe her, Bingle."
"I can't. Good Lord, man, my eyes were blind with tears all the time I
was--"
"Never mind," broke in Force. "We won't go into that, after all. Did
she tell you anything about herself, her past life, her--her trouble?"
"Not a word. She was just about to enter the future life, Force. She
hadn't much to say. Simply said that she hoped I'd be good to her
little baby, that's all. Go on, man."
Mr. Force appeared to be lost in bleak abstraction. The curt command
brought him out of it with a start.
"She went by the name of Mrs. Hinman, you say. No other name was
mentioned, then or afterwards?"
"No."
"I can tell you something about her, Bingle. She lived for three years
as the wife of a man who called himself Hinman. She wasn't his wife and
that wasn't his name. She'd been on the stage. She went to live with
this man as his wife. She was a good girl up to the time she met this
man and fell in love with him. Her home was in the West. Her parents
were respected, God-fearing people. They never knew that she--that she
took up the life she led with--Hinman. Don't interrupt me, Bingle. If I
don't get it out now, I'll never have the courage to try it again. No
man was ever in such a desperate plight as I find myself in to-day.
I'll come straight to the point. I am the man called Hinman and--this
child you've got here with you is--mine."
He might have had the grace to exhibit some sign of shame or
compunction, but he did nothing of the kind. He merely looked defiant,
as if expecting Mr. Bingle to say something that he could resent.
But Mr. Bingle sank deeper into his chair, his chin buried, his eyes
fastened in a sort of horror upon the face of the President of the
great bank. He was incapable of uttering a word.
After a little while Force went on: "Blood will tell. All this accounts
for the peculiar, inexplicable attraction that Kathleen has held for
me. It is like a chapter out of an impossible novel. It--"
"And perhaps it accounts for the antipathy the poor child has for you,"
said Mr. Bingle, his voice a trifle shrill and uncertain. He did not
take his gaze from the face of his visitor. "It now seems quite natural
to me."
"Nonsense! The child had no means of knowing or even suspecting that
I--"
"She had a birthright, Force. You can't take that away from her. The
hatred for her father was born in her. God wouldn't let her hate the
wrong man, you know."
Force got up from the chair, tremendously moved all of a sudden. A
piteous, pleading look came into his eyes, and his face, once arrogant,
was now haggard with despair.
"Bingle, I--I want you to help me. For God's sake, do what you can for
me. Put into practice your beautiful Christmas Carol teachings. I--I
want her. She must be made to understand that I love her, she must be
made to feel that she is everything in the world to me. She looks like
her mother. I thought it was fancy on my part, but now I know. Good
God, little did I know where fate was going to lead me when I employed
those fellows to find the child of Agnes Glenn. Little did I know that
it would lead me to your door, Bingle."
Mr. Bingle arose. He was very pale and shaken, but he managed to
control himself with remarkable fortitude.
"I have not told you that Agnes Glenn died of starvation--and carbolic
acid," he said slowly. "Have your detectives told you that?"
"Carbolic acid?" whispered Force, with staring eyes. "Starvation? Good
God, man--not that!"
"Yes--THAT! The Society found her when she was about gone. I was
notified. We were looking for a child. This baby of hers was then about
two years old. Mrs. Bingle and I went to the poor little flat where
they had found her, after the neighbours had told the police of her
plight. She was sick unto death. I said that we would care for her baby
as if it were our own. Then I made arrangements to have her removed to
a hospital at once. While we were out of the room, she took the
carbolic acid. That's the way it happened, Force. That was the end of
Agnes Glenn. She was a splendid character, Force. She did not betray
you. She stuck by you to the very end. She protected you a great deal
better than you protected her."
"See here, Bingle, I don't like your tone. It sounds preachy. You don't
know anything about life, so you can't understand. That sort of thing
is--well, it happens to a good many men and no one thinks much about
it. I daresay that half the men you know have had just such an
experience. It's part of the game here in New York. The girls
understand it. They have no illusions. They know that these men
cannot--or will not marry them. So, as you don't know anything about
life as it's practised now-a-days, I'd advise you to go slow with your
platitudes."
"All right, Force," said Mr. Bingle quietly. "If that's the way you
feel about it, there's no use wasting time over nothing. I can't resist
saying, however, that I didn't think it was in you to be so damned
cold-blooded."
"Cold-blooded over what? The Glenn girl? Why, my dear man, that was
nearly thirteen years ago. I am sorry that she had to go the way she
did, but, good Lord, I can't go through life in sackcloth and ashes
because she died--as a lot of people do, every year, you know. Hers was
not an uncommon case. There are thousands just like it happening every
year. It's the price we all pay, men and women. There's no use being
sentimental about a perfectly commonplace--I might even say
legitimate--transaction. Agnes Glenn was like the rest of her kind: she
had a very sharp pair of eyes open all of the time, you may be quite
sure of that. I will say this for her, poor little devil: she was no
blackmailer. She got down and out when the time came and she never
squealed. That's more than most of 'em do, Bingle. 'Pon my soul, old
man, I came here to see you this morning fairly trembling in my boots.
I had an idea it was going to be a hard, nasty business talking it over
with you, but--by George, it isn't. Now, we can get down to
rock-bottom, Bingle. My plan was to--"
"Just a minute, please," interrupted Mr. Bingle, quite steadily. "Did
you know that she was going to become a mother?"
"Certainly. You don't suppose I'd be looking for the child if I hadn't
known she was to be born, do you? I'd be a nice fool, hiring detectives
to unearth some other man's child, wouldn't I?"
"I must agree with you in one particular, Force; you are not finding it
as hard as you thought it would be. I've never seen a man change more
than you have in the past four minutes. You were shaking like a leaf
when you came up here, and now--well, 'pon my soul, you are as brave as
a lion. That certainly proves one thing."
"What's that?"
"That your conscience is clearing."
"Now, don't get it into your head, Bingle, that I'm not dreadfully
sorry for the way that poor girl came to her end. She was really a
brick. She deserved something better."
"Knowing that she was going to bear your child, Force, you have every
reason, I am sure, to say that she was a brick. I, too, say that she
deserved something better than being the mother of your child. What
happened? Did she leave you of her own accord?"
"In a way, yes," said Mr. Force coolly. "In the customary way, of
course. You see, I was about to be married, Bingle. When I explained
the situation to her, she understood. She knew that I couldn't go on
leading the sort of life I'd led before--"
"You hesitate, Force. Why couldn't you go on leading the life you'd led
before? I should say it was quite as decent at one time as another."
"By Jove, Single, I hadn't the remotest idea you were so simple. I
thought you at least knew SOMETHING about life. You amaze me. You are
positively refreshing. Let me ask you, Bingle, would you have gone on
leading the old life as--now, man to man, Bingle--would you?"
"Yes," said Mr. Bingle simply. A queer unexpected little smile flitted
across his face--a wry smile, perhaps, but still a sign of humour. "You
see, Force, I love children."
Mr. Force stared at him without comprehension. What the DEUCE had that
to do with it?
"Oh, well, you can't understand, of course. To make it short, she was
extremely reasonable. As a matter of fact, when I went up to see her
the day after I had told her that I was to be married, hang me if she
hadn't cleared out. No scene, no tears, no maledictions--just good,
hard sense, Bingle, that's what it was. Not many of them would have
been so decent about it. They usually make a bluff or something of the
sort--money, you know, regular blackmail. But she didn't. She got out
as quietly as a mouse, left no trace behind, no regrets, no complaints.
Just a note saying she understood and wishing me luck. Rather fine, eh?"
"And you married right after that?"
"Six weeks afterward."
"And, of course, the present Mrs. Hinman knows that she's got a
step-daughter?"
"The present Mrs. Hinman? Step-daughter? Good Lord, Bingle, I didn't
know you had that much sarcasm in you. But that delicate remark of
yours brings me back to the main issue--the matter I really came over
to see you about. Naturally Mrs. Force knows nothing of--of this story
I've been telling you. Now, what I want to get at is just this: how can
we manage it about Kathleen without causing my wife to suspect? Put
your mind to it, Bingle. How am I going to take the child under my
wing, so to speak--take her into my home, without--" "Wait! We'll look
at it from another point of view. Suppose this detective of yours had
found your child in the slums of New York, a street waif, a
beggar--what then? Was it your intention to take her into your home in
that case? Wasn't it your idea to provide a home for her in some
respectable family, educate her, give her a secret allowance--and let
it go at that? Can you honestly say to me, Force, that you intended to
adopt her--as you are now thinking of doing?"
"Confound you, Bingle, isn't it only reasonable that I should have
wanted to see the child before I made any definite plans for her
future?"
"And now that you've seen her, and found her to be an adorable, lovely,
even high-bred little creature, you think it's all right to take her
into your own home--into her father's home?"
"Don't be hard on me, Bingle. Can't you understand that I've got a
father's feelings after all? Can't you credit me with--"
"I'll go back a dozen years, Force, and ask you this question: did you
make any effort to find this child and provide for her when she was a
tiny baby? Did you do anything toward helping the mother in her time of
trouble?"
"I tried to help her, Bingle, before God I did," cried Force earnestly.
"I'm not such a rotter as all that. Agnes wrote me a brief note when
the baby was born. I happened to be off on my wedding-journey at the
time. She said she merely wanted me to know that she had a little girl
baby, and she went on to say that she'd starve before she'd take a
penny from me for its support. That's the truth, Bingle, I swear it.
When I got back from California, I tried to find Agnes. I wanted to do
the right thing. I wanted to make the rest of her life easy and
comfortable. But I couldn't find her."
"Did you hunt very long?"
"Long enough. A year or so later I heard that she was dead and that the
child had been taken into a good home. There was nothing more for me to
do. I dropped the matter. Then, recently, I began to think about the
child. I began to want her. I engaged detectives to--"
"We know all about that," interrupted Mr. Bingle crisply. "And now I
think we understand each other clearly, Force. You want Kathleen. So do
I. There's only one way for you to get her, and that is to have Mrs.
Force intercede for you. If your wife comes to me and says that SHE
wants Kathleen, I'll give her up, even though it breaks my heart. What
have you to say, Force?"
Force had lost all his lofty confidence. He was shaking again, as with
the ague. This was not at all what he had bargained for. Who would have
dreamed it of Bingle?
"Come now, Bingle, let us get together--"
Mr. Bingle interrupted him in no uncertain manner. He planted himself
squarely in front of the big man--in fact, almost under his nose--and
snarled:
"There's only one way for you to get Kathleen away from me, Force, and,
darn you, I don't believe you'll undertake it. I shall give her up to
you only on condition that you acknowledge her to be your daughter."
Force's jaw dropped. "Are you crazy, Bingle?" he gasped. He lifted his
head the next instant in order to avoid the agitated finger that was
being shaken under his nose.
"I don't intend that you shall say to the world that she is a child of
shame. Not at all, sir! That would be the height of cruelty. But you've
got to tell your wife the story you've told me if you want to take
Kathleen away from me. She has got to know that the child is yours. You
can't come any adoption dodge over me, Force. She's already adopted.
She--"
"But, great heaven, man, my wife wouldn't have her in the house if--if
she knew the truth about her," exploded the wretched Force. "No woman
would stand for that."
"Then, by the eternal Moses," shouted Mr. Bingle, "she'll stay right
here with Daddy and Mammy Bingle."
"But she's mine! If, as you say, she is the daughter of Agnes Glenn
there isn't the slightest doubt that she belongs to me. I want to do
the right thing by the child. I want to--"
"No use talking, Force. There's but one way."
"But, damn it all, I CAN'T go to my wife with all this! I can't--"
"Then Kathleen stays where she is," said Mr. Bingle firmly.
"Great Scott, man, what difference can it make to you? You can adopt
another child to-morrow and fill her place. It isn't as if she were
your own child. You don't know what it is to have a child of your
own--your own flesh and blood. You CAN'T have a father's feeling for--"
"That will do, Force! You've said enough. The matter stands as it is.
I'll tell you something else though before we part: I don't want you
coming to this house annoying Agnes Glenn's child. I shall tell my wife
all that you have told me and I'd advise you to tell yours, because I
don't want you to put your foot inside my door until you can come here
with Mrs. Force and humbly--you notice I say humbly?--implore us to
give up that which belongs to us by virtue of that old law of salvage.
I have already wished you a Merry Christmas, Mr. Force. Now permit me
to bid you good morning."
He strode to the study door and opened it. His chin was high and his
eyes were uncommonly bright. The hem of the dressing gown was farther
from the floor than it had ever been during his ownership.
"I'll think it over, Bingle," muttered Mr. Force, very red in the face
as he stalked past the little man and started down the stairs. "Good
morning!"
"Good morning!"