The rest of his vacation was spent in the bedroom of a second class boarding-house in Chicago.
At the end of three weeks he returned to New York looking far worse than when he went away. Mr. Hertzog therefore hesitated to tell him that Horton had moved for another trial on newly-discovered evidence.
But the matter could not be kept secret, for Horton’s counsel had done more than claim he could prove his client’s innocence; he not only produced one or two strikingly significant exhibits received anonymously from Detroit, but also asserted he was daily obtaining clues from unknown friends in other cities which might lead to the discovery of a conspiracy, if not to the conspirators themselves.
Even a careless student of human nature must have observed the marked change which had taken place in Mr. Constable.
The lines that come gradually with age and experience give meaning and character to the face—even the traces of illness are not without a certain dignity. But when care begins to crease the face of self-complacence its effects are distortions, terrible as those which some iron implement of torture would suddenly produce.
Mr. Constable’s florid countenance was without a line until it was wrinkled and furrowed and scarred.
Mr. Hertzog was shocked by the appearance of his partner. Was the man going mad? He had seen such changes foreshadow insanity. But if he was going mad—from what cause? He must make sure.
Mr. Constable sat in the junior partner’s private office reading a copy of the affidavits supporting the latest move in Horton’s long fight, and Mr. Hertzog watched him. He noted that the trembling hands left little spots of perspiration on the pages, he saw the twitching lips every now and then forming words—he counted the rapid throbbing of the arteries in head and neck. All this he had expected and discounted, but he was unprepared for the horrid look of cunning in the man’s eyes, as he glanced up from his reading.
For a few moments neither of the partners spoke. Then Mr. Constable broke the silence.