“Not an atom: in the man of action. The mere fact of your talking of remorse proves to me that you’re not the man to have planned and put through such a job.”
Granice groaned. “Well—I lied to you about remorse. I’ve never felt any.”
Denver’s lips tightened sceptically about his freshly-filled pipe. “What was your motive, then? You must have had one.”
“I’ll tell you—” And Granice began again to rehearse the story of his failure, of his loathing for life. “Don’t say you don’t believe me this time ... that this isn’t a real reason!” he stammered out piteously as he ended.
Denver meditated. “No, I won’t say that. I’ve seen too many queer things. There’s always a reason for wanting to get out of life—the wonder is that we find so many for staying in!”
Granice’s heart grew light. “Then you do believe me?” he faltered.
“Believe that you’re sick of the job? Yes. And that you haven’t the nerve to pull the trigger? Oh, yes—that’s easy enough, too. But all that doesn’t make you a murderer—though I don’t say it proves you could never have been one.”
“I have been one, Denver—I swear to you.”
“Perhaps.” He meditated. “Just tell me one or two things.”
“Oh, go ahead. You won’t stump me!” Granice heard himself say with a laugh.