Newmark did not alter his attitude nor his expression, but his face
slowly went gray. For a full minute he sat absolutely motionless, his
breath coming and going noisily through his contracted nostrils. Then
he arose gropingly to his feet, and started toward one of the two doors
leading from the room.
“Where are you going?” asked Orde quietly.
Newmark steadied himself with an effort.
“I'm going to get myself a drink in my bedroom,” he snapped. “Any
objections?”
“No,” replied Orde. “None. After you get your drink, come back. I want
to talk to you.”
Newmark snarled at him: “You needn't be afraid I'll run away. How'd I
get out of town?”
“I know it wouldn't pay you to run away,” said Orde.
Newmark passed out through the door. Orde looked thoughtfully at
Heinzman's affidavit, which, duly disinfected, had been handed him by
Dr. McMullen as important; and thrust it and the other papers into his
inside pocket. Then he arose to his feet and glided softly across the
room to take a position close to the door through which Newmark had
departed in quest of his drink. For a half minute he waited. Finally
the door swung briskly inward. Like a panther, as quickly and as
noiselessly, Orde sprang forward. A short but decisive struggle ensued.
In less than ten seconds Orde had pinioned Newmark's arms to his side
where he held them immovable with one of his own. The other hand he ran
down Newmark's right arm to the pocket. There followed an instant of
silent resistance. Then with a sharp cry of mingled anger and pain
Newmark snatched his hand out and gazed a trifle amazedly at the half
crushed fingers. Orde drew forth the revolver Newmark had grasped
concealed in the coat pocket.
Without hesitation he closed and locked the bedroom door; turned the key
in the lock of the other; tried and fastened the window. The revolver
he opened; spilled out the cartridges into his hand; and then tossed the
empty weapon to Newmark, who had sunk into the chair by the lamp.
“There's your plaything,” said he. “So you wanted that affidavit, did
you? Now we have the place to ourselves; and we'll thresh this matter
out.”
He paused, collecting his thoughts.
“I don't need to tell you that I've got you about where you live,” said
he finally. “Nor what I think of you. The case is open and shut; and I
can send you over the road for the best part of your natural days. Also
I've got these notes and the mortgage.”
“Quit it,” growled Newmark, “you've got me. Send me up; and be damned.”
“That's the question,” went on Orde slowly. “I've been at it three days,
without much time off for sleep. You hurt me pretty bad, Joe. I trusted
you; and I thought of you as a friend.”
Newmark stirred slightly with impatience.
“I had a hard time getting over that part of it; and about
three-quarters of what was left in the world looked mighty like ashes
for awhile. Then I began to see this thing a little clearer. We've been
together a good many years now; and as near as I can make out you've
been straight as a string with me for eight of them. Then I suppose the
chance came and before you knew it you were in over your neck.”
He looked, half-pleading toward Newmark. Newmark made no sign.
“I know that's the way it might be. A man thinks he's mighty brave; and
so he is, as long as he can see what's coming, and get ready for it. But
some day an emergency just comes up and touches him on the shoulder,
and he turns around and sees it all of a sudden. Then he finds he's a
coward. It's pretty hard for me to understand dishonesty, or how a man
can be dishonest. I've tried, but I can't do it. Crookedness isn't my
particular kind of fault. But I do know this: that we every one of us
have something to be forgiven for by some one. I guess I've got a temper
that makes me pretty sorry sometimes. Probably you don't see how it's
possible for a man to get crazy mad about little things. That isn't your
particular kind of fault.”
“Oh, for God's sake, drop that preaching. It makes me sick!” broke out
Newmark.
Orde smiled whimsically.
“I'm not preaching,” he said; “and even if I were, I've paid a good
many thousands of dollars, it seems, to buy the right to say what I
damn please. And if you think I'm working up to a Christian forgiveness
racket, you're very much mistaken. I'm not. I don't forgive you; and I
surely despise your sort. But I'm explaining to you--no, to myself--just
what I've been at for three days.”
“Well, turn me over to your sheriff, and let's get through with this,”
said Newmark sullenly. “I suppose you've got that part of it all fixed.”
Orde rose.
“Look here, Newmark, that's just what I've been coming to, just what
I've had such a hard time to get hold of. I felt it, but I couldn't
put my finger on it. Now I know. I'm not going to hand you over to any
sheriff; I'm going to let you off. No,” he continued, in response to
Newmark's look of incredulous amazement, “it isn't from any fool notion
of forgiveness. I told you I didn't forgive you. But I'm not going to
burden my future life with you. That's just plain, ordinary selfishness.
I suppose I really ought to jug you; but if I do, I'll always carry with
me the thought that I've taken it on myself to judge a man. And I don't
believe any man is competent to judge another. I told you why--or tried
to--a minute or so ago. I've lived clean, and I've enjoyed the world
as a clean open-air sort of proposition--like a windy day--and I always
hope to. I'd rather drop this whole matter. In a short time I'd forget
you; you'd pass out of my life entirely. But if we carry this thing
through to a finish, I'd always have the thought with me that I'd put
you in the pen; that you are there now. I don't like the notion. I'd
rather finish this up right here and now and get it over and done with
and take a fresh start.” He paused and wiped his brow, wet with the
unusual exertion of this self-analysis. “I think a fellow ought to act
always as if he was making the world. He ought to try not to put things
in it that are going to make it an unpleasant or an evil world. We
don't always do it; but we ought to try. Now if I were making a world, I
wouldn't put a man in a penitentiary in it. Of course there's dangerous
criminals.” He glanced at Newmark a little anxiously. “I don't believe
you're that. You're sharp and dishonest, and need punishment; but you
don't need extinction. Anyway, I'm not going to bother my future with
you.”
Newmark, who had listened to this long and rambling exposition with
increasing curiosity and interest, broke into a short laugh.
“You've convicted me,” he said. “I'm a most awful failure. I thought I
knew you; but this passes all belief.”
Orde brushed this speech aside as irrelevant.
“Our association, of course, comes to an end. There remain the terms of
settlement. I could fire you out of this without a cent, and you'd have
to git. But that wouldn't be fair. I don't give a damn for you; but it
wouldn't be fair to me. Now as for the Northern Peninsula timber, you
have had seventy-five thousand out of that and have lent me the same
amount. Call that quits. I will take up your note when it comes due; and
destroy the one given to Heinzman. For all your holdings in our common
business I will give you my note without interest and without time for
one hundred thousand dollars. That is not its face value, nor anything
like it, but you have caused me directly and indirectly considerable
loss. I don't know how soon I can pay this note; but it will be paid.”
“All right,” agreed Newmark.
“Does that satisfy you?”
“I suppose it's got to.”
“Very well. I have the papers here all made out. They need simply to be
signed and witnessed. Timbull is the nearest notary.”
He unlocked the outside door.
“Come,” said he.
In silence the two walked the block and a half to the notary's house.
Here they were forced to wait some time while Timbull dressed himself
and called the necessary witnesses. Finally the papers were executed. In
the street Newmark paused significantly. But Orde did not take the hint.
“Are you coming with me?” asked Newmark.
“I am,” replied Orde. “There is one thing more.”
In silence once more they returned to the shadowy low library filled
with its evidences of good taste. Newmark threw himself into the
armchair. He was quite recovered, once again the imperturbable, coldly
calculating, cynical observer. Orde relocked the door, and turned to
face him.
“You have five days to leave town,” he said crisply. “Don't ever show up
here again. Let me have your address for the payment of this note.”
He took two steps forward.
“I've let you off from the pen because I didn't want my life bothered
with the thought of you. But you've treated me like a hound. I've been
loyal to the firm's interests from the start; and I've done my best by
it. You knifed me in the back. You're a dirty, low-lived skunk. If you
think you're going to get off scot-free, you're mightily mistaken.”
He advanced two steps more. Newmark half arose.
“What do you mean?” he asked in some alarm.
“I mean that I'm going to give you about the worst licking you ever
heard TELL of,” replied Orde, buttoning his coat.