At that very moment Fosdick was looking the reptile. "Yes, I did try to tear you down," he hissed. "And I'll tell you why. Because I saw your ambition—saw you would never rest until you had robbed me and mine of that which you coveted. Was I not right?"

Armstrong could not deny it. He had never definitely formed such an ambition; but he realized, as Fosdick was accusing him, that had he been permitted to go peacefully on as president, the day would have come when he would have reached out for real power.

Fosdick went on, with more repression and dignity, but no less energy of feeling, "I cannot but believe that God in His justice will yet hurl you to ruin. You are robbing me, but as sure as there is a God, Horace Armstrong, He will bring you low!"

Well as Armstrong knew him, he was for the moment impressed. The only born monsters are the insane criminals; the monstrous among our powerful and eminent and most respectable are by long and deliberate indulgence in self-deception manufactured into monsters, protected from public exposure by their position, wealth, and respectability. We do not realize any more than they do themselves, that they have become insane criminals like the monsters-born. There is a majesty in the trappings of virtue that does not altogether leave them even when a hypocrite wears them; also, Armstrong was more than half disarmed by his new-sprung doubts whether he was wholly justified in meeting treachery with treachery. He surprised Fosdick by breaking the silence with an almost deprecating, "I said more than I intended. What you have done, what I have done, is all part of the game. Let us continue to leave God and morals—honesty and honor—out of it. Let us be practical, businesslike. You wish to save your reputation and your fortune. I can save them for you. I have given you my condition—it is the least I will ask, or can ask. What do you say?"

"I must have time to think it over," replied Fosdick. "I cannot decide so important a matter in haste."

"Quite right," Armstrong readily assented. "It will not be necessary to have your decision before noon to-morrow. The committee has adjourned until Monday. That will give us half of Saturday and Sunday to settle the plans that hang on your decision."

"To-morrow noon," said Fosdick, sunk into a stupor. "To-morrow noon." And he moved vaguely to the door, one trembling hand out before him as if he were blind and feeling his way. And, so all-powerful are appearances with us, Armstrong hung his head and did not dare look at the pitiful spectacle of age and feebleness and misery. "He's a villain," said the young man to himself, "as nearly a through-and-through villain as walks the earth. But he's still a man, with a heart and pride and the power to suffer. And what am I that I should judge him? In his place, with his chances, would I have been any different? Was I not hell-bent by the same route? Am I not, still?"

He walked beside Fosdick to the elevator, waited with him for the car. "Good night," he said in a tone of gentlest courtesy. And it hurt him that the old man did not seem to hear, did not respond. He wished that Fosdick had offered to shake hands with him.

He went to Morris, expecting him at a club across the way, and related the substance of the interview. Morris, who had both imagination and sensibility, guessed the cause of his obvious yet apparently unprovoked depression, guessed why he had been so tender with Fosdick. Nevertheless he twitted him on his soft-heartedness: "The old bunco-steerer hasn't disgorged yet, has he?—and hasn't the remotest intention of disgorging. So, my tears are altogether for the policy holders he has been milking these forty years." Then he added, "Though, why careless damn fools should get any sympathy in their misfortunes does not clearly appear. As between knaves and fools, I incline toward knaves. At least, they are teachers of wisdom in the school of experience, while fools avail nothing, are simply provokers and purveyors to knavery."

XXII