"I don't like smoke," he said with grim meaning. "If there is anything you want to say, sir, you had better say it."
"I have only this to say, Coquenil," proceeded the baron, absolutely unruffled; "we had had our little fight and—I have lost. We both did our best with the weapons we had for the ends we hoped to achieve. I stood for wickedness, you stood for virtue, and virtue has triumphed; but, between ourselves"—he smiled and shrugged his shoulders—"they're both only words and—it isn't important, anyhow."
He paused while a contemplative, elusive smile played about his mouth.
"The point is, I am going to pay the price that society exacts when this sort of thing is—found out. I am perfectly willing to pay it, not in the least afraid to pay it, and, above all, not in the least sorry for anything. I want you to remember that and repeat it. I have no patience with cowardly canting talk about remorse. I have never for one moment regretted anything I have done, and I regret nothing now. Nothing! I have had five years of the best this world can give—power, fortune, social position, pleasure, everything, and whatever I pay, I'm ahead of the game, way ahead. If I had it all to do over again and knew that this would be the end, I would change nothing."
"Except that secret door under the stone shelf—you might change that," put in Coquenil dryly.
"No wonder you feel bitter," mused the baron. "It was you or me, and—I showed no pity. Why should you? I want you to believe, though, that I was genuine when I said I liked you. I was ready to destroy you, but I liked you. I like you now, Coquenil, and—this is perhaps our last talk, they will take me off presently, and—you collect odd souvenirs—here is one—a little good-by—from an adversary who was—game, anyway. You don't mind accepting it?"
There was something in the man's voice that Coquenil had never heard there. Was it a faint touch of sentiment? He took the ring that the baron handed him, an uncut ruby, and looked at it thoughtfully, wondering if, after all, there was room in this cold, cruel soul for a tiny spot of tenderness.
"It's a beautiful stone, but—I cannot accept it; we never take gifts from prisoners and—thank you."
He handed back the ring.
The baron's face darkened; he made an angry gesture as if he would dash the trinket to the floor. Then he checked himself, and studying the ring sadly, twisted it about in his fingers.