“You think—you would say these papers were—that they made a strong case?”
Mr. Constable’s eyes were fixed upon his partner in anxious inquiry, like a sick man waiting the decision of a doctor testing the heart or lungs.
“Yes, it’s strong. Too damned strong.”
The answer given slowly and with emphasis was received with a smile such as the face of a dead man might attempt with cracking skin and snapping muscles.
“And the papers—are they—should you say they were well drawn?”
“Yes—that fellow Mackenzie seems to have learned something during these years—damn him! By the way, how long did he get?”
“Who?”
“Horton, of course.”
“Three, I think—yes, it was three years.”