As quietly as possible, Vanulm entered the darkened room and took his way over to the narrow bed by the window. In spite of all the doctor had said, he could scarcely repress a start. The face that looked up at him was fearfully changed—haggard, unshaven, pale, drawn with pain—only the eyes, upturned to meet his own, gleamed still with all the unquenchable fire of old. Gordon's mouth half parted in the pathetic semblance of a smile, and more by his glance than by any real movement of his head, he signed his visitor to take the chair that stood beside his bed. In silence Vanulm did so, and Gordon, with evident effort, began to speak, his voice not strong, and yet distinct and clear.
"I knew you'd come, Herman," he said. "Devil of a time to get 'em to send for you, but Stratton's a pretty good sort, though. Not a damn pompous old fool like most of 'em. I suppose he's told you. I'm dying. He told me this morning. Thought it was news, but I knew it already. It doesn't need a doctor when the time comes. Any fool can tell—"
He broke off sharply, his lips contorted in a spasm of pain. Vanulm, frightened, made as if to rise, but the sick man frowned and shook his head. "No, no," he whispered, "don't get him. All right in a minute. Leave me alone." And after a moment, indeed, the look of pain left his face, and he went on. "I'd better make it short," he said, "short as I can, but I want to tell you. Remember, Herman, away back, five years ago, a dinner Jim Norton gave to that submarine chap; four or five of us there?"
Vanulm nodded, and an expression of relief came over Gordon's face. "Good," he said, "saves a lot of explanation. Remember we talked religion? Remember I told about a chap that was going to make a gamble out of life? Going to risk everything on there not being any God?"
Vanulm, his eyes fixed on Gordon's face, nodded again.
The sick man spoke quickly, eagerly. "I was the man, Herman," he whispered. "I always pretended religion; I knew in lots of ways it would help me, and it has. I've got men that way that I never could have got in any other. But the whole thing was a lie; to the world I've been a sneaking hypocrite; to myself I've lived straight; no bluffs; no lies; no whining; I've lived my life, and had my fun; and I'm ready to pay—if we have to pay."
He paused, and suddenly his glance found Vanulm's. Keenly he sought to read the expression there; then, with just the shadow of a smile, nodded to himself. "I thought so," he said. "How long have you known?"
"I haven't known," answered Vanulm, "only suspected, from things that have happened lately, that it might be so. In fact, if it hadn't seemed like such a damned piece of impertinence—"
Gordon took the words from his lips. "Yes," he said quickly, "the day you took me to drive. I knew it. I knew you meant well by me, Herman, but it wouldn't have done any good then. It was too late."
The brewer's kindly face took on a troubled frown. "Dick," he said diffidently, "I'm not religious myself, but they say—"