Willard Bent passed a hand under the other’s arm and led him through the coffee-house into an empty room at the back. They sat down on a shelf covered with matting and looked at each other earnestly.
“Don’t you believe any longer, Harry Spink?” asked Willard Bent.
“Don’t have to. I’m travelling for rubber now.”
“Oh, merciful heaven! Was that your automobile?”
“Sure.”
There was a long silence, during which Bent sat with bowed head gazing on the earthen floor, while the bead in his throat performed its most active gymnastics. At last he lifted his eyes and fixed them on the tight red face of his companion.
“When did your faith fail you?” he asked.
The other considered him humorously. “Why—when I got onto this job, I guess.”
Willard Bent rose and held out his hand.
“Good-bye.... I must go.... If I can be of any use ... you know where to find me....”