‘Not ruined, not ruined. Afterwards, in a few years, I shall come up again.
A man of genius like me is never ruined till he is dead. Genius is always forgiven. I shall be forgiven. Suppose I am sent to prison. When I emerge I shall be no gaol-bird. I shall be Rocco—the great Rocco. And half the hotels in Europe will invite me to join them.’
‘Let me tell you, as man to man, that you have achieved your own degradation. There is no excuse.’
‘I know it,’ said Rocco. ‘Let us go.’
Racksole was distinctly and notably impressed by this man—by this master spirit to whom he was to have paid a salary at the rate of three thousand pounds a year. He even felt sorry for him. And so, side by side, the captor and the captured, they passed into the vast deserted corridor of the hotel.
Rocco stopped at the grating of the first lift.
‘It will be locked,’ said Racksole. ‘We must use the stairs to-night.’
‘But I have a key. I always carry one,’ said Rocco, and he pulled one out of his pocket, and, unfastening the iron screen, pushed it open. Racksole smiled at his readiness and aplomb.
‘After you,’ said Rocco, bowing in his finest manner, and Racksole stepped into the lift.
With the swiftness of lighting Rocco pushed forward the iron screen, which locked itself automatically. Theodore Racksole was hopelessly a prisoner within the lift, while Rocco stood free in the corridor.